


Astra Non Obligant

by LadyAureliana



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Espionage/Criminal AU, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2019-10-03 08:01:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 51,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17280170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAureliana/pseuds/LadyAureliana
Summary: Riza Hawkeye is a talented paralegal with a knack for disappearing, and Roy Mustang is a charismatic lawyer with a dark history all his own. Unfortunately, the sins of the past have a way of catching up with us, and their delicately crafted lives are ever at risk. For people like them, escape is only temporary.





	1. The Truce

**Author's Note:**

> Hola :) I hope you enjoy the chapter!

**The Truce** – November 17th – New York City

At six o'clock on a crisp winter morning, Riza Hawkeye strolled the seven blocks from the 119th Avenue subway station to the imposing Raven Building. Snow fell gently around her, the sidewalk was dusted white, and a chilled breeze swirled the flakes around her feet in dizzying patterns. Hands stuffed into the pockets of her black woolen trench coat, she meandered through the other early risers, making for Cafe Versen on the corner of 125th and Sable. It was a narrow, standing room only establishment, with a counter running the length of one wall and a menu hanging behind it, meant to provide a quick caffeine fix for busy professionals rather than a place for student study groups.

The cafe had become a fairly frequent stop on her commute over the past two months, its appeal centered around the early hours and extensive loose-leaf tea selection. Riza found she enjoyed a morning walk and cup of tea, the simple routine easing her into her work day in a way she'd never before experienced. Her previous career had necessitated a lack of predictability, forcing her to eschew forming comfortable little habits, which made her visits to Versen a wonderful change of pace. Granted, the cafe's security was positively abysmal and its cameras poorly functioning, both of which helped assuage her cautious paranoia.

The door was slightly fogged when she pushed it open, warm air blasting over her head, her cheeks and ears burning with the change in temperature. There was only one patron at the counter and she took her place behind him, tugging off her gloves and scanning the list of teas with interest. She perused the case of strudel and cinnamon rolls as well, though she never bought one, and shot a glance at the passerby on the street. With a little smile at the woman just opening the door, she returned her attention to the menu, thinking that the orange blossom oolong or the jasmine green tea sounded particularly tempting.

Hardly a few seconds later, a voice to her right said, "Hey, we need to talk this place into selling bacon. Cause this _strudel_ bullshit just isn't cutting it for me."

"Good morning to you too, Maria," she said with a chuckle.

"It's never a good morning at six." The other woman shook snow from her brown hair, eyeing the many coffee blends. "By the way, my mother's on the war path."

"Hence the bacon craving," she concluded, stepping up to the counter and adding to the barista, "A medium jasmine green tea, please."

" _Exactly_." Maria was briefly silent, and then said, "I'll take a large red-eye with your Medianoche blend."

"What did Bradley do this time?" She turned to face her, leaning a hip against the counter. "I guess he never called after their magical night in Atlantic City."

"Dear _god_ don't say that." Her friend shuddered. "He's so creepy."

_You don't know the half of it_ , was what Riza thought, but instead she handed the cashier a few bills and said, "I'm only kidding. Just making sure you're awake for our early meeting." Accepting her tea along with the change, she asked, "Do you know what it's about?"

Maria shook her head, slipping the rest of her cash in a pocket as they headed for the door. "I haven't heard, but I _did_ hear that Mustang's coming back today."

Her brow crinkled as she removed the lid to take a careful sip of green tea, steam twisting lazily upward. "Who?"

"Roy Mustang...resident hottie and annoyingly perfect guy. I keep forgetting you haven't met him."

They paused at the edge of the crosswalk and she wrapped both hands around the cup to keep them warm. "Ah...annoyingly perfect?"

" _Yes_ ," she began as they started across the street. "He's got that hair, and the suits, and all the charm. And he's a genuinely nice person. It's a little unfair."

"I _hate_ when good-looking guys are also nice. Really kills the vibe," Riza responded.

"Shut it." The other woman chuckled, dodging a strip of ice on the pavement. "It's kinda sad actually. His wife's been sick for a couple years. He takes care of her and his stepson, and he goes on leave every so often to spend time with them."

She took another drink, eyebrows rising. "That's..."

"Yeah, I know. And I'm told they were talking _divorce_ before she got sick."

"And he stayed," she quietly concluded, skepticism rising from the cynical parts of her mind. No one was _that_ kind.

"Yeah." They reached the curb, meandering down the sidewalk, and Maria finally tasted her coffee with a grimace. "But that's all the gossip you get for now. How was your weekend?"

"Not bad." Pulling open the door to the Raven Executive Building, Riza continued with a couple white lies, "Had lunch with my cousin, did some shopping...it was nice. You?"

"Dinner with Mom and her new boyfriend." She shrugged a shoulder. "Which was...something."

"Torture, maybe?"

"Just about." The brunette sighed. "The new guy's not as skeevy as the last one, which is nice. He might last a few weeks."

She smirked, stepping onto the elevator and pressing the button for the eighteenth floor. "Then you might actually have to learn his _name_."

Maria let out a snort. "Seriously, why do I even hang out with you?"

"I honestly couldn't tell you."

" _Well_ ," another voice interjected, followed by Heymans Breda stopping on the threshold of the car and leaning against the door frame with his hands in his pockets. One of the firm's several paralegals, he had a round, friendly face, reddish-brown hair, and a stocky build. "That would be because gorgeous people like to flock together. It's a fascinating phenomenon." He gave them a smile and added, "Morning, ladies."

Maria eyed his rumpled clothing with amusement. "That's a great suit, Heymans."

"And it looks almost as nice as it did _yesterday_ ," Riza observed.

"Thank you for noticing," he replied pleasantly, the doors trying to close but jerking back when they hit his leg. "My date last night went extremely well. She's definitely in the running for that coveted title of _Breda's_ _girlfriend_."

"She's also the only competitor," the blonde said, once more smirking into her tea. "For the last three months, from what I hear."

"Which makes her the lucky front runner," he responded, the doors attempting to close on him yet again. "And I love it when you _tease_ me, Hawkeye."

"Yeah, you and your girlfriend are adorable, Riza's hilarious, and life's great," Maria dryly interrupted. "Would you get in the damn elevator?"

Breda chuckled, stepping inside and narrowing his eyes at the brunette as they started to ascend. "Better drink that coffee. Your inner bitch is showing."

"Just for that, I'm gonna find a reason to make you work with _me_ all day." The other woman took a satisfied sip of coffee, a soft _beep_ sounding as they passed another floor. "Even though your work husband's back."

"First of all, we prefer work _boyfriend_...keeps it casual. And second, you're kind of a dick." Abruptly changing the subject, he pointed at Riza and said, "Can I get into your office? I hid an extra suit in that handy closet of yours."

"I noticed." She checked her phone, glancing above the door to see which floor they'd reached. "Dark blue, pinstripes, hand-stitched...that's one classy suit, Breda."

"Thanks." He removed his already loosened tie, neatly rolling it to avoid creases. "By the way, that cocktail dress you have in there? _Excellent_."

Riza simply smiled her gratitude and strode into the hall as soon as the doors slid open, drinking her tea and passing one glass door after another. Her office was smaller than most, with a row of windows along one wall, a utilitarian desk, and a few reference texts stacked on a bookshelf. Her so-called unique touches had been to hang a fake paralegal certificate from Duke beside a forged UCLA bachelor's degree, and to bring in a random 'I love New York' coaster, because the condensation rings on the glass desktop had driven her mad. Otherwise, the only personal items in that room were the aforementioned dress, the spare shoes she kept with it, and the belongings she brought with her every day.

Once she unlocked the door, she went about unwinding the scarf from her neck and hanging her coat over the back of the chair, while Breda moved directly to the closet. "Thanks again, Hawkeye," he said, brandishing the procured suit and strolling away to change.

"You're welcome," she replied, pulling files from her bag and glancing around the office to be certain nothing had been disturbed.

Taking a seat, Riza transferred the tea to a travel mug and secured her wallet in a lockable drawer, her eyes moving to the line of windows along one wall. The sky was dark, snow still fluttered downward, and lit offices dotted the skyscrapers nearby in random patterns. A few pinpricks of light blinked in the distance, perhaps a plane circling the airport, and she felt a momentary itch to leave, to disappear to one of those forgotten beaches Becca would always talk about. That, however, was not an option. Not yet.

With an exhalation she rose to her feet and tucked a folder under her arm, leaving in the direction of Christiana Ross' corner office and making a mental list of that day's responsibilities. Much like the rest of the suite, the hallway was obnoxiously beige, and she'd often wondered how such dreary colors were supposed to promote productivity. In her opinion, the firm's obsession with earth tones was more likely to induce boredom than efficiency and, to be honest, she'd never been more appreciative of windows in her life.

She caught Maria's eye through the doorway up ahead and stood to her left against the wall, holding out the file. "The Barringer appeal. I've already submitted a few discovery documents to the courts, and these are the memorandums we discussed. Pertaining to Barringer himself, his partner, and their accomplices."

"Have I told you lately that I love you?" the brunette asked, flipping through the pages.

She smiled, a corner of her mouth quirked as she placed the quote. "Been listening to Van Morrison?"

"I'm _so_ glad you didn't say Rod Stewart." Maria shook her head in disapproval. "I was never a fan of that guy."

"Neither was I." Riza took another drink and watched coworkers file into the room. "All that feathered hair."

"I _knew_ there was a reason I liked you."

"And here I thought it was my award-winning personality."

"Hey," the other woman said, raising a coffee mug toward her like a toast. "Happy two-month anniversary, by the way."

"Thanks." She quietly drummed her fingers on the cup in her hand, spotting Breda in the corridor and taking note of the man beside him, her mind easily slipping into a well-practiced analysis. He was taller and slimmer than his redheaded companion, with an athletic build, round face, and thick black hair. His stride was confident, relaxed, and when he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt she saw the expensive watch on his wrist, one generally valued at five grand. The suit he wore was not only luxurious but skillfully tailored, his tie in a perfect double windsor, and when he grinned in response to one of Heymans' jokes there was a genuine crinkling around his eyes.

The meeting itself began shortly after the men joined the waiting collection of employees, and it was more or less what she'd expected. Christiana Ross made a few announcements and asked for updates on specific cases, Halden Bradley added his two-cents to maintain his self-importance, and Gene Raven never bothered to make an appearance. Business as usual. It was not until she heard an exchange between Mustang and Bradley that her eyes narrowed a fraction, one of her many mental alarms sounding.

From his bearing it was clear that Mustang possessed a calm self-assurance which, in her experience, was rare. The man was completely comfortable in his own skin. During a conversation most people made tiny, seemingly inconsequential movements without even realizing. It might be the tap of a foot, the smoothing of a tie, the shifting of a watch, or any number of absent-minded gestures that hint at some underlying emotion. However, the gentleman in question lacked even the most minute of tics, and it was clearly intentional. It meant everything he did had a _purpose_ , and that fact caught her attention.

Once the brief meeting ended Riza headed back toward her office, ruminating on her observations and chatting with Maria until they went their separate ways. She'd just rounded the corner of her desk when she heard a soft knock, turning to find Mustang himself standing in the doorway. His gaze was subtly analytical, and she weathered the scrutiny with little concern, thinking it was only fair that he return the favor. Stepping forward, he held out a hand and said, "Hi, we haven't met. I'm Roy Mustang."

"Riza Hawkeye." They shook, and she felt a strangely linear scar on the heel of his hand. "Please, have a seat."

"Thanks." He exhaled quietly as he took one of the guest chairs, unbuttoning his suit jacket. "Breda says you're quite good, and coming from him that's high praise."

"I know." She set her tea aside, the scent of jasmine filling the room, and sat with her desk between them.

"I've been asked to handle the Curtis divorce," he began, still eyeing her somewhat carefully. "And if you're interested, I'd like you to help me." It was evident they both had something to hide, and she recognized this was his way of acknowledging her presence.

She let a little smirk form. "I take it your work boyfriend's busy."

"No, actually." He shook his head, a corner of his mouth quirked in amusement. "Izumi Curtis hates him, threatened to tear out his eyes and feed them to her goldfish."

"Goldfish?" She took a thoughtful drink. "I would've guessed piranhas were more her style."

"So would I, come to think of it," Mustang commented with a light chuckle. "I've heard she's spoken to you a few times without resorting to violence. That's impressive."

"We bonded over a mutual disdain for Patrick Dempsey." His head tilted ever-so-slightly, and she added, "It's the hair, it defies the laws of physics."

"That it does," he replied, and she knew he was awaiting a response to his _real_ question, the real reason for this little introduction. Namely, he wanted to know if her intentions were malicious, to determine whether or not they could coexist.

"Anyway, not important." She purposefully met his gaze and continued, "I'd be happy to help. Just let me know what you need." In other words, _you keep your secrets and I'll keep mine_.

He gave another nod. "I appreciate it." Mustang rose to his feet, buttoning his jacket as he did. "Pleasure meeting you, Miss Hawkeye."

"And you as well, Mr. Mustang."

Riza finished her tea and watched him leave, well aware that conversation could have deteriorated _easily_. She thought back to the background she'd compiled on him, not recalling any details of note, and marveled at the fact that he was just as well-hidden as herself. A solid identity required both money and resources, and few people possessed enough of either to truly disappear into a new life. In any case, his secrets were of little concern to her. She had plenty of her own.


	2. The Concert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like the second chapter :)

**The Concert** – February 2nd – Chicago

Riza pushed open the hotel room door, shooting a look back into the empty hallway as her free hand wrapped around the small-caliber pistol in her purse. She set her bag on the floor and held the door handle until it closed silently, pacing slowly to clear the darkened bathroom before flipping on the main lights. A slow breath left her through barely pursed lips, and her grip on the weapon relaxed, because all she saw was a king-sized bed, mediocre abstract artwork, and garish drapes.

Placing her luggage on the desk, she hung her clothes in the bathroom to relax any creases and slipped out of her coat. With the television flipped on, the local weather report flooded the room, and she smiled at the forecast of a snowy Chicago evening. They'd arrived a few hours earlier for a preliminary meeting in the Curtis divorce case, and this was the first free moment she'd stolen since their plane touched down. The following week would be full of potentially tense negotiations with Sig Curtis' lawyers, but _this_ night was hers.

She unhurriedly changed her clothes, raking hands through her recently freed hair and filling her clutch with a few necessities. With a preemptive glance into the hall she left the room, pulling the door firmly shut at her back. One could never be too careful.

On her way down the corridor she eyed herself in one of the many mirrors on the wall, evaluating the sleeveless, indigo cocktail dress in the brighter light, and her lips gave a satisfied quirk. At the ding of an elevator she picked up the pace, finding an extremely well-dressed Roy Mustang in the only open car. The doubtless expensive, dark gray suit became him undeniably well, and must have been tailored considering how she found her eye so effortlessly following the slope of his abdomen. He certainly was an attractive man.

Riza ignored that observation, giving him a little smile and a quiet, "Thank you," when he politely placed a hand on one of the doors to keep them from closing.

"You're welcome," he replied with a nod.

The brief descent was a quiet one and she idly shifted her weight, checking her watch once more and estimating the time to reach her destination. When the elevator stopped he waved for her to exit first, and with another amiable curve of the lips she accepted, adjusting the scarf around her neck as she strode across the lobby. It took her a moment to realize they were moving in the same direction, inadvertently walking side-by-side, and they shared a slightly awkward look while passing the front desk.

It was her turn to hold the door for him and, once on the sidewalk, she asked the doorman to flag a cab, pulling her coat tight against the sharp breeze. The taxi arrived and, despite the chill, she wordlessly offered it to Mustang, but he shook his head, hands shoved in his pockets. "No, thanks. You go ahead."

She brushed hair from her cheek. "Enjoy your evening."

"You too, Hawkeye."

With an amused grin Riza stepped into the car, thinking that so many polite niceties in a mere five minutes must be unheard of. She gave the driver the address of the Chicago Symphony Center and eyed the ticket in her clutch with delight, because this would be her first live performance of Bach's works in _years_. While planning the business trip, she'd decided to allow herself this one extravagance, because there was little danger of being recognized in this city, and because she needed a few hours that were not a complete lie.

She toyed with one corner of the ticket and people-watched for five more blocks before handing over the fare with a generous tip. When she alighted at the music hall, she was instantly reminded of the many shows she'd attended in her floor-length gowns, with flutes full of endless champagne, rubbing elbows with the criminal elite. Then, pulled from bittersweet memories by a familiar face, she abruptly laughed, because from the next taxi appeared her recent elevator companion.

Chuckling, Mustang paced toward her and asked, "Did your car smell like garlic? Because mine did."

"Wet dog, actually." She glanced at the brightly lit building and gestured toward her unbuttoned coat. "I thought I'd air out my dress before going in."

The corners of his mouth curving, he reached into a pocket with an air of uncertainty. "I'm sure you're meeting someone, but in case you're not..." He held up two tickets. "My sister was supposed to come, but she just called...something about flu and vomit..."

"That sounds horrifying."

"I _know_. We were using the box owned by her husband's employer. The seats are fantastic." He tilted his head toward the entrance. "Would you like to join me?"

Riza contemplated the offer and eyed him carefully, because the move was not only _unwise_ but outside her comfort zone, and to accept would be unlike her. In spite of the months they'd worked together, Roy Mustang remained something of a mystery, and she could not quite bring herself to find that fact worrisome. It was true she had no idea what he was hiding, that the sister story was likely false to at least some degree, but during her time at the firm she'd learned he was unexpectedly kind, and sincere. She could not say she _trusted_ him, however they'd clearly escaped similar worlds, and that put them on something of an even footing.

At the same time, it had always been her rule to avoid unnecessary attachments and interactions, for years it was how she'd survived. And yet, as they stood on the frozen sidewalk watching each other, she struggled to find the danger in going to the symphony with a coworker. With a slow nod, she said, "Fantastic seats sound great. Thank you."

They strolled through the glass double doors and she loosened her scarf, heading toward the staircase he indicated with a wave of the tickets. Neither bothered with small talk on the way to their box, and that mutually accepted silence was one reason she'd found him easy to work with. Riza was undeniably prone to quietude, thanks in part to her previous career, and at times that made people surprisingly uncomfortable. While many would feel compelled to engage in idle and unnecessary chatter to fill that void, Mustang seemed equally content to talk or share a tranquil moment. It was refreshing.

The box itself had been decorated to mirror an early 1900s aesthetic, with dark blue carpet, red faux-velvet hangings, gilt chairs upholstered in thick fabric, and engraved door frames that were meant to appear vintage. Draping her coat and scarf over one of the extra seats, she looked down at the still curtained stage, the view bringing a smile to her face. She glanced at the boxes across the auditorium, and once more became briefly lost in memories of her last visit to the Chicago Symphony. It was ten years ago, a night of unparalleled Vivaldi, and she'd worn an utterly gorgeous dress of black silk.

"Hawkeye." She spun toward the voice, and Mustang continued, waving at the server in the doorway, "Drink?"

Riza nodded. "The Balvenie Portwood, neat."

"Make it two," the lawyer added, turning toward the stage as the waiter disappeared. "I'll be honest, I was leaning toward gin, but yours sounded better."

"Gin is much better suited to Beethoven," she replied with a little smirk, silencing the phone in her clutch.

"I see, and you obviously prefer scotch with Bach." He contemplated her, eyes narrowed with interest, handing the tickets to a porter that soon arrived to check them. "Mozart?"

"Champagne, of course."

"Of course." He took the steps down to the balcony's edge, his smile amused. "And I'm going to suggest tequila for Tchaikovsky."

"I'll have to agree," Riza began, lightly drumming her fingertips on the railing, the metal cool to the touch. "I enjoy the alliteration."

"I thought it had a nice ring." He checked his phone, slipping a hand into his pocket in that nonchalant way which for him seemed standard.

They took their seats once the drinks arrived, making the occasional comment and observing the many fellow concert attendees milling around. The twenty-one-year Portwood gently chased away the lingering cold, and she savored the subtle traces of honey, the liquor smooth and pleasantly heavy on her tongue. When the lights dimmed she felt a mild jolt of anticipation, and when they lowered permanently she took another sip of scotch to hide the curve of her lips. Then that first note played, from the prelude to Bach's First Suite for cello, and she felt instantly lighter, felt like _herself_. Her eyes drifted closed, and she exhaled slowly.

Names had always been interchangeable for her, as easily donned or exchanged as clothing, and she'd learned early on that it was merely a matter of selecting the appropriate cover for a given situation. Over the years her _real_ name had lost all significance, and it was experiences like listening to a favorite composer that helped her truly shed the many identities she'd worn like armor. And lately, she'd needed to feel grounded.

Eyeing the liquid in her glass, she pushed all thought from her mind and simply listened, for the moment not caring whether Mustang noticed any change in her demeanor. She nursed that same drink for the duration of the concert, which was incredible, and upon leaving they ended up at a nearby pizzeria for a late-night dinner. Afterward, when she was alone in her hotel room once more, she realized it was the most pleasant evening she'd spent in at least two years.


	3. Collateral Damage

**Collateral Damage** – April 12th – New York City

It was one of the first warm days that spring, and midday sunlight flooded her modest office, where Riza had just added a final document to the Elric-Rockbell file. The latter family were old friends of Christiana Ross, friends who happened to be worth billions, and the firm was handling the development of the most thorough prenuptial agreement ever concocted. The bride's parents harbored concerns about their daughter's fiancé, a young journalist with approximately two-hundred dollars to his name. A private investigator had been quietly hired and, after a full month, had yet to find evidence that the young man was anything but devoted to the heiress. However, the family chose to ignore such paltry facts since, as a rule, criminals tended to be overprotective of their fortunes.

She pulled another folder across the desk as a figure stopped in her doorway, and she looked up to find Mustang holding two to-go cups. "A medium of the Versen autumn darjeeling, just for you."

With a smirk on her lips she waved him inside, a pen tucked between her fingers. "This feels like a bribe."

"I can't imagine _why_." He sat with a grin, pushing a cup across her desk. "Having a nice day?"

She chucked softly and removed the lid, watching steam escape. "Definitely a bribe."

"You have such a poor opinion of me, Hawkeye..." He drank his coffee, which he always took black. "...and when I'm about to make your day so much better."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Yeah, I lied. I need you to stay late tonight and help me with the Kimblee case."

"Kimblee..." Her brow drew together in thought. "The client's suing her ex-husband for breach of contract."

"Right. The investigator just dropped records on my desk, and the client wants a meeting in two days. Because the universe hates me." Mustang held up a hand, as if to preempt the negative response he assumed to be forthcoming. "But don't worry, we're ordering in, and I'm buying."

She held his gaze for several seconds and took another sip of tea, grateful for the jolt of caffeine. "As long as we order from that expensive Thai place down the block."

"Why are you trying to bankrupt me?" He shrugged, gesturing at her with his cup. "I guess my kid just won't go to college anymore. You can explain why."

"You lawyers...always exaggerating."

He laughed and glanced out the windows to his right. "We can't help it."

"Alright, I'm in. Now go away." She raised her tea as he stood, and added, "Thanks for the drink."

"Thanks for the help." He paused at the doorway to continue, "I have a couple meetings off-site, but I'll be back around six."

She nodded and opened the next folder on her desk. "I'll be here."

Riza passed a busy afternoon catching up on several cases, and even managed to spare a half-hour to visit the gym three floors below the law firm. After a quick shower and a check of the time, she decided to walk to Cafe Versen, thinking a stroll might be nice before once more devoting herself to work for hours. She was on the return trip, waiting to cross the street with a drink carrier in one hand, when her _second_ phone vibrated, and she pulled the device from the inner-pocket of her tan trench coat as she stepped into the crosswalk.

The originating number was unfamiliar, and the message itself was succinct: TDC 0411-1751.

Her lips fell open a touch, her jaw set not a moment later, and she was then forced to put a smile on her face when she passed Breda in front of the Raven building. His grin was even more cheerful than usual, and he pointed at the drinks from Versen with the comment, "Good call, Hawkeye." He turned, and added, "I have dinner plans, but I'll be back later to help you guys out."

"Have fun. And you better be taking Maria somewhere _nice_."

He simply winked before continuing on his way, and she finally slid the phone back in her pocket, slightly more lost in thought than usual as she made for the elevators. Back on the eighteenth floor, she checked her watch once again, estimating that she had approximately ten minutes before Mustang would be ready to break open that box of investigative notes. Fortunately most of her coworkers had gone, and she reached her office with no interruptions, closing the door and setting the partially forgotten drinks on the desk.

Riza quickly opened the laptop and logged in, fishing a cable from its hiding place beneath the lining of her bag. She then accessed a series of folders, activating a pair of handy little programs developed by an old friend, and while they loaded she connected the two devices. The first program allowed her to connect to the internet with complete anonymity, via a complex system of virtual private networks and secure servers, and through the second she could place a call while both concealing her location and phone number. Hacker friends were _profoundly_ helpful.

Her eyes scanned the hall beyond her door as she dialed the number that sent the text, and it was answered after five rings and a muted click that suggested the call had been forwarded. Both participants were silent for at least ten seconds, neither wanting to speak first, but finally a quiet voice asked, "Nadia?" It was a name by which she had gone several years before, and only Lan Fan Mura had continued to use it, most frequently as a nickname, or to indicate that they were alone.

She exhaled, closing her eyes, and could not stop her momentary smile of relief. "It's me. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." The other woman hesitated, and then said, "I know this number was for an emergency, but...I thought you'd want to know."

"You were right." Pressure built behind her eyelids, and she forced them open to watch the corridor. "What happened?"

"All I know is that she overdosed. They dumped her half-dead on the curb in front of the hospital."

" _Who_?" Her hand clenched so tightly fingernails dug into her palm, because she already knew the answer.

"Who do you think?" There was another second of silence on the line, and she could almost see Lan Fan shrugging a shoulder. "Or one of his guys, at least. By the time I heard about it they'd already called time of death."

"Where is she?"

"Brigham." Lan Fan took an audible, uncertain breath. "And the hacker knows. I just hope he doesn't do anything stupid."

"He won't." Her somewhat blurred gaze roamed to the clock. "I have to go, Lex. Be careful, and call me if you need me. I'll switch to eight."

"Number eight, copy that. Take care of yourself, Nadi."

Riza ended the call, disconnected the phone from the laptop, and deftly dismantled the burner, stowing it all in her bag's concealed compartment. She then took a long drink of tea and stared unfocused at the computer screen, her other hand hovering over the wireless mouse while she contemplated several ideas, which were all varying degrees of idiotic. Closing the more questionable programs, she faced the windows, wiping at her eyes with a tissue and taking several deep breaths. Like it or not, she still had a few hours of work ahead, and she tried to push everything to the back of her mind for the time being. Admittedly, she was less successful than usual.

All too soon there was a knock on her door, and Mustang asked, "Ready?"

She took another instant to shut her eyes, compose herself, and then rose to face him with a wry grin. "Do _y_ _ou_ have my dinner?"

He chuckled and held up a paper bag packed with take-out. "You didn't really think I'd flake, did you?"

"The thought crossed my mind." She grabbed the coffees and pulled a folder from the stack on her bookcase, handing it to him as they followed the hallway to his more spacious office. "I was looking at some of the financial records the investigator left you. I found some strange charges, and I wanted your opinion."

"I think you're what people call an overachiever, Hawkeye," he commented, paging through the file once he'd set the food on the coffee table.

"I'm aware," she replied, digging through the bag and opening containers until she found the mild massaman curry. She smiled to herself with the first bite, because he'd remembered her favorite dish, and even ordered a carton of the brown rice she preferred. To many it may seem minor, but it was a gesture she appreciated, and an entirely new experience.

"All these charges to a company called Rickman Technology Incorporated." He flipped through the pages she'd compiled once more, and his voice took on that tone of absorption she'd come to recognize. "Every two weeks, assorted dollar amounts...but all within the nine-hundred to twelve-hundred range."

Riza could not help the smirk that blossomed as she pulled another file from the private investigator's collection. "I wonder what _technology_ he was buying."

"Makes two of us." He let out a chuckle, tossing his jacket over the back of the armchair across from her and opening his dish of kao phad with shrimp. "So you're thinking he uses an upscale escort service, one that offers certain security perks. For a fee, of course."

"For the cheating bastard that needs to _explain_ where all that money's going." She sifted through a series of surveillance photos, all of which depicted a thin man with a long face, black hair past his shoulders, and eyes that she could only describe as _creepy_. "This guy is..."

"I know," he agreed, and turned in his seat at a knock on the glass door.

Kain Fuery, the firm's youngest paralegal, poked his head in and his eyes widened when he saw the banker's box of research. "Breda said you wanted to see me."

Riza smiled and held up a carton of pad thai in invitation. "Kain, what have I told you about listening to Breda?" Mustang simply snorted into his dinner.

"That it's a _bad_ idea," he said with distinct resignation, taking the food, picking up a fork from the center of the table, and reluctantly grabbing a folder labeled _Travel_.

The next two hours were devoted to reading about the life of one exceptionally repugnant man, and that was impressive considering the circles in which she once moved. They were through a quarter of the files when Maria and Breda joined them, their date seeming to have gone quite well, and at that point their work somehow slowed. Thanks, no doubt, to Heymans' tendency to spend more time making jokes than reading notes. In any case, after three hours Riza was more than ready for a break, and without much in the way of preamble she stood, announcing that she'd be stepping out for a few minutes.

After a quick stop in her office to throw on her coat, she took the elevator to the top floor before climbing the last flight of stairs to the roof. The cloud-covered sky was lit by several spotlights scattered around the city, and the night air still held an early spring chill that made her skin prickle. She strode to the eastern end of the building and pulled the lighter from her pocket, along with the stack of sticky notes and the pen she'd taken from the front desk on her way out.

Looking directly down 74th Street, she could glimpse Central Park in the distance, and as she exhaled the pressure behind her eyes returned. She shook her head and whispered, "I'm so sorry, Bec."

She'd met Rebecca Catalina outside the Central Park Zoo ten years ago, when the convivial brunette was drawn into a dark game for which she was not entirely prepared. Riza had tried to shield her as much as possible, to keep her from falling in too deep, but then that bastard Clarence Armstrong enticed her with jewels and yachts and _drugs_. It truly was a winning combination.

On the topmost note she wrote 'Rio, babe,' and the phrase brought an amused quirk to her lips, because Becca would say it for almost anything. Was a job completed successfully? _Rio, bab_ _e_ _...and don't forget the fucking champagne_. Did your shithead of a boyfriend just walk the plank? _Rio, bab_ _e_ _...you were too good for him, anyway_. Unexpected windfall? _Rio, bab_ _e_ _..._ _how'd you get away with it_?

Are the feds crawling up your ass? _Well, then…_ _fuckin_ _Rio, bab_ _e_ _._ _I've always wanted to visit_.

She tossed the pen behind her and lit one corner of the notepad, letting it burn halfway while she still held it, watching the letters slowly vanish. When the roof door clanged shut, she threw the smoldering blue squares over the side, tucked the lighter back into her pocket, and swiped hastily at tears. Footsteps came ever closer, and she knew Mustang had joined her by the hint of cologne carried on the breeze.

The silence continued briefly, and then he said, "Sixty seconds."

"Excuse me?" She finally glanced to the right, but his gaze was trained on the skyline.

"I know something's wrong." He leaned his elbows on the waist-high wall. "So, sixty seconds, no names, no details...but you can talk. If you want."

They'd never spoken openly about their quiet truce to respect each other's secrets, never mentioned it directly. Her deeply entrenched caution screamed for refusal because this idea, while seemingly benevolent, was irrefutably ill-advised. At the same time, Riza discovered she _wanted_ to confide in someone, however transiently, because she was isolated from almost every friend she'd ever had. Merely talking to Lex had provided some comfort, but she'd been forced to end that conversation after two minutes. It was nowhere near enough, and she was _tired_ , and so against her better judgment she repeated, "Sixty seconds."

Softly, he asked, "What happened?"

For the third time that day, she blinked away tears. "I tried so _fucking_ hard to get her out, but she wouldn't leave. And now she's dead." She shook her head, wiping at the corners of her eyes. "And I can't even go to the damn funeral." She paused to take a calming breath. "Did they…?"

"They didn't notice a thing," he finished.

"But you're more perceptive."

"Like you, I have to be." He turned to face her, pointedly meeting her gaze. "Whoever _she_ is...her death, the fact she stayed...it's not your fault."

"You don't know the whole story, as you're well aware." _And it absolutely was her fault_.

"I don't need to." His shake of the head was emphatic. "It's safe to assume it's not your fault."

Her mouth curved into a muted smile. "I think our time's up."

"Indeed it is, and it's _cold_ up here."

"You've lived through New York winters." Riza watched in bewilderment as he tried to pull his coat tighter, as if it might help. " _How_ can you think this is cold?"

"Because I'm hot blooded, like Foreigner."

"Wow..." She started toward the door, her smile already more genuine. "Just, wow...at least Breda has good jokes."

"Well, I'm no expert," he began, catching up with her. "But I did hear two wows. That's more than Breda's ever gotten."

She smirked and tugged the door open. "That's because people are too busy laughing."

" _Shit_." He chuckled, bounding down the stairs and out of the cold. "You're not very nice."

"Never pretended to be," she replied, while he elbowed the button to call the elevator.

The night's work lasted another hour after they returned to his office, and by 11:30 she was in her cramped kitchen with a cup of chamomile tea steeping before her. The closest window was cracked, the cold breeze infrequently brushing her neck, and every so often a horn blared from the street below. Her next burner phone sat on the table, beside the cellphone she used for every day life, and on her computer was displayed an autopsy report from Brigham Women's Hospital. She had received it in an untraceable and heavily encrypted email, with a subject line that read _accidental overdose my ass_. Riza was fairly certain she knew the sender's identity, and she was becoming convinced that her old life simply would not leave her alone.

With a sigh she closed the laptop, no longer able to look at the clinical photos of a dead and autopsied friend. She thought back to her conversation on the roof with a twinge of regret, because it was the first time she'd ever broken the many unofficial protocols that kept her alive. No sensitive information had been divulged, and thus no damage done, but she resolved to rein in the part of her that was growing comfortable around him. It was disconcerting.


	4. The Wife

**The Wife** – June 19th – Larchmont

Rain battered the metal roof of the cab, pouring in heavy sheets that had forced the driver down to a ten-mile per hour crawl on an empty highway. They were currently navigating through suburbia, toward a home she'd only ever visited in daylight, and Riza peered through the windows in search of familiar landmarks. An already dampened umbrella waited in one hand, and she slung the bag's strap across her chest to simplify her exit, removing cash from a pocket.

She leaned forward to hand over the money, and pointed through the windshield at a driveway, the end of which was flanked by neatly manicured Japanese lilacs. "It's that one. I'll just get out here."

"You sure, miss?" he asked, slowing uncertainly. "I can take you up to the house."

"It's not far." She unfurled the umbrella through the open door and stepped out, adding as she swung it shut, "Thanks, have a good night."

Riza rushed through the torrent, following the slick and largely unlit drive to the best of her ability. It was paved, the edges lined with strips of gravel, and the surface occasionally caught the glare of passing headlights. She held the bag close to her stomach, hoping to keep the contents as dry as possible, and finally found the short walk that led to the front steps. Knocking on the plain black door, she grinned when it was opened by a young redhead and said, "Hey, Sheska."

"Hi, Riza. Come on in." The green-eyed woman smiled and pulled the door further inward. "I'm _so_ sorry you had to come out in this weather."

"It's no problem." She left her umbrella on the front mat to dry, hanging her partially soaked coat on the nearby rack. "Where should I set up?"

"Ah...the kitchen might be easiest." Sheska locked the door, and her expression turned apologetic. "Mr. Mustang isn't back yet, but I really should leave. I'm sorry to ask this, but..."

Riza held up a hand to stop her, drying her hair with a towel on her way to the kitchen. "It's fine, really. He explained the situation." She smiled and set her bag on a chair, placing a hand on the other woman's arm. "You're on _vacation_. Get going. We'll be alright for a little while."

" _Thank you_ …seriously. We're driving to Rhode Island to visit my parents, and my boyfriend's waiting with a packed car." The brunette lifted a clipboard from the counter, pointing at the top section. "Dinner's taken care of, she's had all her meds...overall it was a pretty quiet day. She wasn't lucid, but she was calm. She's been in her studio for the last hour, editing old photos." Sheska checked her watch, reaching for her purse, and added, "My temporary replacement will be here at seven tomorrow. Thanks again, Riza."

"Have fun." She put the kettle on the stove, and searched around the spacious kitchen for mugs and whatever tea they might have. She'd met Silaris Mustang once before and for some reason, since the odds were excellent that the woman would not remember her, she preferred not to meet her empty-handed. Even if she just brought tea.

While waiting for the water to boil she nipped upstairs to check on her, before returning to fill the mugs and arrange them on a tray. Riza took a moment to slide her phone into her pocket and climbed the stairs once more, gently rapping a knuckle on the door frame. The brunette at the desk glanced up with a smile, and asked, "Are you here for the proofs? I'm not quite done yet." Silaris tucked a lock of long, wavy black hair behind her ear, and returned her attention to the computer, resuming alterations to the digital image displayed. She'd been a professional photographer before illness struck, namely, two slow-growing and inoperable meningiomas, for which she had received extensive treatment with limited success.

She stepped into the room and set the tray on a worktable, picking up both mugs. "I work with your husband, he asked me to stop by...and I thought you might be thirsty." Setting one cup on the desk, she pulled up a chair and added, "I'm Riza, by the way."

"It's great to meet you, Riza." The woman graced her with another friendly smile. "I'm Silaris...and thanks for the tea. It smells fantastic."

"You're welcome." She leaned back to unobtrusively watch her work, admiring the picture on the screen, which depicted a pretty redheaded model in a picturesque meadow of wild flowers. She curiously scanned the room, gaze moving from the various prints on the walls to the door of a now dismantled dark room.

Her initial thought upon meeting Mustang's wife was that she had to be one of the most beautiful women she'd ever seen. She had the flowing dark hair some ladies dream about, and her eyes were this unreal shade of blue that took on an almost purple hue in some lights. Her grin was sincere and, at least when they'd last met, she seemed like the nicest person on the face of the planet. Granted, she had not experienced any of the woman's more difficult days, but it was clear that Silaris Mustang was fundamentally incredible.

"Alright," Silaris abruptly said, sitting back with a sigh and rubbing her temples. "I think I need to change gears. Talk to me about something random...like your best vacation."

Riza's smile was surprised. "Ahh...Greece. I visited the ruins of the temple of Poseidon at Sounion. It sits right on this cliff, and it's gorgeous." She took a whiff of peppermint tea before drinking. "You?"

"One year Roy and I went to Argentina, and we traveled down to Cape Horn. It was amazing. Looking out at the Drake Passage makes you feel so small." Her grin was dazzling, eyes narrowed as she searched for another question. "Have you ever been engaged?"

She gave a single shake of the head. "No, but I was asked once."

Silaris pulled her feet up to sit cross-legged on the chair. "Don't tell me you turned the poor guy _down_."

She took another look at the photo to momentarily avoid the other woman's gaze. "I asked for time, I wasn't ready. And then one night we were in his truck, on the way home from dinner, and a teenager stoned on oxy t-boned us with a semi."

"And your boyfriend took the brunt of it," the brunette finished, a familiar look of sympathy on her face. "And you?"

"I walked away with twenty-six stitches and a scar..." Riza answered, leaning forward and searching her own scalp with her fingertips. "...where my head hit the passenger side window. It feels a little crazy, actually, and..." She turned her head, pausing when she caught sight of Mustang watching her from the doorway, with an expression which soon vanished. Fighting the smile that attempted to spread upon seeing him, and reminding herself that he was _married_ , she said to Silaris, "Apparently we have an audience."

"You're home." The other woman's face brightened instantly. "How's Maes? Forgotten all about us?"

"He's fine." Roy smiled, strolling into the room to take his wife's hand and press his lips to the back of it. "Says he misses you." Evidently he chose not to address the accidentally dropped name, which could very well be someone from his past.

"He always _was_ full of shit," she replied with a laugh.

Riza took that opportunity to stand and grab the tray. "I'll be downstairs. Good luck with your photo, Silaris. It looks great."

"Thank you. Tell them it'll be ready soon."

She paused in the doorway to play along once more. "The deadline was pushed back, so there's plenty of time."

"Then maybe I can stop working tonight," Silaris cheerfully responded, grinning up at her husband. "Wouldn't that be nice?"

With a final glance at Mustang she started down the stairs, left the tray on the kitchen counter, and stepped through the sliding glass door to access the covered deck. The rear of the lot was wooded, the many branches writhing erratically in the storm, and the dull roar of teeming rain filled the air. Depositions for a suit against Hakuro Pharmaceutics waited in her bag, but they were temporarily forgotten, as she was busy contemplating the shit show this could become. She'd grown too familiar, to the point that she was sharing stories with a sliver more truth than she ought, and the well-known urge to disappear was nearly overwhelming. Nearly.

She found herself treading a thin line, that much she could admit, but life as Riza Hawkeye had introduced her to a type of normalcy she'd never hoped to experience. And even as she took the phone from her back pocket, thumb hovering over the digital keypad, she knew she was not yet ready to cut ties. She absolutely should, because of their increasing ability to read each other, and because of the way his voice _appealed_ to her. Instead, she returned the device to her pocket with an exhalation, sipping her tea while his footsteps descended the stairs.

They entered the kitchen simultaneously, and she spread folders over the counter while he filled a mug with coffee. She'd just started perusing one of the many depositions when a glass of water appeared in her field of vision, and she found his gaze with an appreciative smile. "Thanks." Remembering her earlier conversation, she informed him, "Sheska said the temp will be here at seven in the morning."

He nodded and sniffed the coffee hesitantly, as if he were unsure how long it had been sitting out. "Thank you for agreeing to move work here tonight. I didn't have anyone else to stay with her."

"I don't mind," she replied, giving the glass a random turn clockwise, one of her few mindless habits.

"Silaris liked you, by the way." Mustang crossed the kitchen, emptying the coffee maker to brew a fresh pot. "She asked me when the law firm started hiring models."

Riza snorted derisively and redirected her attention to the utterly boring deposition in front of her. " _Liar_." Still shaking her head, she bit back a smile as the scent of coffee filled the room, and before long they'd fallen into that companionable silence which to them came so easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and have a good one :)


	5. An Old Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all :) I hope you enjoy the chapter!

**An Old Friend** – July 29th – New York City

Bottles of Moët et Chandon littered the table, and the conference room was filled with the lighthearted conversation that often accompanied a celebration, this one in honor of Maria's ascension to partner. A near-endless series of toasts had been given, and the firm's various employees were currently scattered about the room in groups. Christiana and Halden chatted quietly in one corner, while in another Breda regaled anyone who would listen with accounts of his many drunken college adventures. Alone for the moment, Riza leaned against the wall and sipped the champagne fizzing softly in her glass, corners of her mouth curving when she caught Mustang's eye across the room, where he'd been trapped talking to Gene Raven for twenty minutes. His expression hardly changed, save for the slight raise of the eyebrow that communicated his amused exasperation, and in response she tapped her watch, as if there were something time sensitive they needed to discuss.

He excused himself, pointing at her with his glass while he explained the supposed situation, and then strode toward her with a grateful grin. Bracing his shoulder against the wall beside her, he quietly said, "I didn't think I'd ever escape."

She turned toward him, hiding her smirk with the champagne flute. "You're welcome."

"I guess you're my knight in shining silk." His gaze moved toward the far corner at a burst of laughter, and he chuckled. "Breda's friends sound _insane_."

"He's going out with them later, trying to get everyone to join." She took a bacon-wrapped scallop from the nearest tray, scanning the party. "I hear one wants to base jump. You should go."

"No, I should _leave_ before they kill me."

"Base jumping isn't bad." Riza shrugged. "You might break a leg, but you'll be fine."

"Of course you've been. Why am I not surprised?"

"Once or twice." She side-eyed him. "I'm very exciting."

"As am I." He grinned, topping off his drink. "I have grand plans to watch a movie with my stepson tonight. He's visiting from college."

"And by that you mean you'll pretend to watch a movie while actually working." She gently clinked her glass with his. "Because you're a workaholic."

His eyes crinkled and his voice lowered, and when he spoke it was with the softest emphasis on her name. She'd recently discovered that she loved it, and the way it made her hair rise. "You... _Hawkeye_...have no room to talk."

"Okay," Maria said, appearing on her right and glancing apprehensively back at Breda. "He wants me to go hang out with his friends...to _meet_ them. And after all the stories, I'm a little worried I'll somehow wake up hungover in Philly."

"Well, if you do, just call me," Riza told her, adding at her friend's glare, "But you probably _won't_."

"Thanks. I'm so reassured." The brunette hastily refilled her glass, and promptly drained it.

Breda himself soon joined them, followed by a friend of his that had already arrived, someone named Falman, but Riza was distracted by the phone buzzing in her back pocket. It vibrated several times in quick succession, and she took another drink with one hand while the other reached down to check the message. The source number for the text was blocked, forwarded from another of her many devices, and it contained only one word: Aura.

She kept her expression cheerful, returning the phone to her pocket and excusing herself with the explanation that she'd forgotten to take care of something earlier that day. Mustang's gaze hinted at concerned curiosity, but she simply quirked her lips, which in all likelihood said enough. It took mere seconds to reach her office, and she quickly threw the light trench over her clothes, grabbing the burner from her purse and tossing her usual phone in a drawer. She locked her other belongings with it, aware she'd have to retrieve them later, and strode toward the little-used stairwell at the end of the hallway.

On the landing she slipped off her heels, racing down eighteen flights of stairs until she breathlessly found the ground floor. The phone was already vibrating as she stepped into her shoes, and once out the door she answered without hesitation. "Hey."

" _There_ she is." The caller's voice was warm, and distinctly _male_. "Don't worry, I have a friend working some magic. This conversation isn't happening."

"Miles." Her brow drew downward, and she strode west toward one of the several metro stations where she kept an emergency bag. "What happened?"

"Her grandfather pissed off _Clarence_." His sigh was heavy. "The asshole set her up. It was a fucking ambush."

Her stomach clenched as she jaywalked across 76th Street. "Where is she?"

"She wanted me to tell you _aci_ _ē_ _s_ , said you'd know what that meant."

"Why am I talking to _you_?" Riza turned immediately to the left, crossing the next street with the flow of pedestrians. "She's the only one that could've given you this number, and yet she didn't call me. You understand why I might be a little suspicious."

"They got the drop on her in Atlantic City, but she managed to escape." There was a brief silence, and then his voice was muffled, like he was holding his hand over the phone. "She's smart. Got a coded message to _me_ rather than contact you directly. And here we are."

"If this is some kind of game, Miles, I _swear_..." she began, glancing around while starting down the stairs to the subway station.

"I'm losing this number as we speak." He paused. "You sound good, by the way."

"Thanks. So do you. Much less drunk than usual."

"Two years of sobriety will do that."

A tiny smile reappeared on her face. "Congratulations."

Riza ended the call without another word, turning toward the lockers, finding the door labeled 506, and typing in her code in a matter of seconds. She stopped in a bathroom long enough to fit a black wig over her hair, balance burgundy-framed glasses on her nose, and to swipe a dark ruby color over her lips. She slid a folding tactical knife into her pocket and appraised her reflection, slinging the bag across her chest and keeping her head down on the way to the train. She disembarked after five stops and started through the throng of late-evening pedestrians in the direction of a strip club called Cassiopeia. It was one of the city's more upscale establishments, utilized by two powerful crime families to launder and transport money.

She turned down a side street, strolling along the alley behind the club like she belonged, one hand tucked in her pocket and wrapped around the knife. As she neared the rear door, the muffled bass grew louder and a tall, muscular bouncer rose from the bar stool beside it with a beer in his hand. "You lost?"

Riza smirked, tilting her head toward the door. "I'm gonna need you to let me in."

He chuckled and finished the beer as he turned to face her, throwing the bottle to shatter against the pavement. "That s..."

Before he could finish whatever sarcastic remark was forthcoming, she jabbed the edge of her hand into his throat and rammed the side of his head into the wall. She then yanked open the door and the music instantly pounded in her ears, a remix of an eighties pop song she could not recognize. The corridor was dimly lit, and the overwhelming scent was a combination of sweat and a variety of cloying perfumes. Pushing into the dressing room, she gave the dancer that glanced over a wry look and crossed to the far door, taking a wig and some clothes from a rack on the way. She found herself in another dark hall, one closer to the stage given the increase in volume, and knocked slowly three times on an entrance with a crude star carved into the upper right-hand corner.

When it cracked open, the familiar, gaunt face that greeted her sent a hollow pang through her chest. "Hey, Lex." Once inside, she kicked the door shut and pulled her into a fierce hug. The room smelled musty, a layer of dust settled on some of the bottles on the highest shelves, and a cracked formica table in the corner was laden with old newspapers. "Are you alright?"

"He's _dead_ , Nadi." Lan Fan shuddered, and that pang shot through her chest again. "He killed _Fu_. I don't..."

"I'm so sorry," Riza said quietly, stepping back and noting the congealed blood on her friend's cheek. She dropped the bag on a stack of wooden vodka crates, drew out a compact medical kit, and started cleaning the series of cuts on her face. Her hand formed a fist around the gauze when she realized the injuries had come from brass knuckles. "What the _hell_ …?"

"I've had worse." The other woman started to change into the borrowed clothes, and winced as she tried to remove her stained jacket. "Oh, and I should probably tell you I was shot."

"Thanks for the warning." With her lips in a sardonic line, she knelt to examine the injury which, judging from all the blood, was located just below the rib cage. She lifted the shirt and gingerly felt the area, pivoting to check her back, and said, "There's an exit wound, and if there was internal bleeding, you'd already be dead. So there's that." She pressed temporary bandages to both wounds and added, "I'd rather stitch them up at my place…"

Lan Fan nodded as she slowly stepped out of her red-soaked jeans. "I can wait." Riza grabbed the borrowed pair to help her dress, and her friend added, "I'm sorry about this, Nadi. I know this is the last thing you needed."

"Lex..." She glanced upward, guiding the brunette's feet into a pair of stolen cherry-red heels. "Why do you think I gave you that list of numbers?"

"I _know_." The younger woman shrugged a shoulder, and grimaced when they peeled off her shirt. "I just didn't plan on having to use them."

Once she was fully dressed and wearing a fresh jacket, Riza concealed her black hair with a wavy, red wig. Every bloody article of clothing and scrap of gauze was stuffed into the bag, and they were soon on the move, Lan Fan clutching her arm on their way to the rear exit. Her friend chuckled at the sight of the still unconscious bouncer, and said, "I assume that was you asking _nicely_?"

"I was in a hurry."

They followed the alleyway out to the road and made for a different subway station than she'd used to reach the neighborhood. The bag was lobbed into a dumpster two streets away, behind an Indian restaurant that made her stomach growl audibly, and she linked the other woman's arm through hers to provide greater support. There was no wind to speak of and the day's heat had yet to dissipate, making their stroll an even more disagreeable endeavor. Still, the pair chatted pleasantly, laughing at each other's jokes and playing the part of two friends on the town, but she did not miss the way Lan Fan's hand gradually tightened around her own. When they finally found seats on the next train the woman's relief was palpable, and Riza looked over to find a deep red already seeping through the appropriated black shirt.

"We'll be there soon," she reassured, keeping careful track of the stops they passed.

It was another twenty minutes before they reached her apartment, and the following hour was consumed with stitching and bandaging her frighteningly numerous injuries. Not until Lan Fan had fallen asleep on her bed did Riza feel comfortable leaving, and she set a note on the beside table next to a glass of water and several ibuprofen. She made a quick trip to the office in the middle of the night, stealing up and down the unobserved stairwell to evade any unwelcome questions regarding her presence. Her laptop was essential for making arrangements for her friend and, while she'd left her phone there to avoid being tracked, she had a feeling there might be a message waiting.

She was once more climbing her own stairs by the time she switched on the device and, sure enough, a notification blinked almost immediately. It was from Mustang, time-stamped two hours prior, and it rather innocuously said: _Hey,_ _do you have the Hakuro file_?

Even as she unlocked her door she called him, knowing full well he was a night owl, and when the ringing ceased, she said, "Yeah, I have it. What do you need?"

"Hold on." There was muffled speech on the other end of the line, and then the sound of pacing, as though he were moving into another room. "I stuck a note on top of the most recent depositions. It was something to do with Ling's tuition, and it slipped my mind."

Riza's lips curved, because few things _slipped his mind_ , and she found his concern for her safety both comforting and slightly alarming. "Let me look." She pulled the file in question out, flipping through the pages until she located the first deposition from the prior month. "Here it is...it just says to call Jacob Astley...555-6742."

"Thanks. I have to figure that out in the morning." She heard an exhalation, and the thud of what might have been a cupboard door closing. "I hope you didn't interrupt anything important to tell me that." It was as direct a question as he would venture.

"Not at all." She hesitated, glancing into the unlit bedroom. "I just have an unexpected visitor. My sister Sierra's in town. Her idiot boyfriend left her here, no money and no ticket home."

"Knight in shining silk, right?" His tone revealed his amused smile.

"I guess so," she chuckled quietly. "I should go. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Night, Hawkeye."

She leaned against the counter, momentarily pensive, until a voice asked, "Who were you talking to?"

Riza looked up at her friend with a grin and set her phone aside. "A coworker."

"Mmmhmm...sure." Lan Fan walked into the kitchen, dropping stiffly into a chair.

"A _married_ coworker, Lex." She took the other seat and reclaimed her glass of water from earlier. "So don't go getting any ideas like you did with Trevor."

"There was magic between you two."

She snorted. "The only thing between us was six inches of serrated steel."

"So _hostile_ ," the brunette teased, reaching up to prod at the gauze on her cheek.

Voice softening, she asked, "Want to tell me what happened?"

Lan Fan's eyes abruptly glistened. "Fu was talking to the feds. The _feds_ , Nadi." She took the glass of water and drank half in one swig. "Armstrong's guys worked him over...a _lot_...but I don't think he told them anything. So they got rid of him and picked me up. Clarence figured I'd know what he told the cops." She paused again, this time more thoughtfully. "I knew he was up to something, but the feds? Really?"

Riza waved an unconcerned hand. "Clarence has been using Fu to feed law enforcement misinformation for years. They were thick as thieves." Her head tilted as an idea occurred. "Unless he started giving the feds real information. He might do it if he thought he could get you out, _or_ this was all an elaborate plan to use you to find me."

The younger woman shook her head. "I wasn't tailed after I escaped, I'm sure of it." She sighed, another wince contorting her features. "I should've left with you before. I was such an idiot." Pausing once again, she appraised the modest apartment and threw up a hand in confusion. "What are you still _doing_ here, Nadi? Seriously. Bec's gone, I'm sure as hell not going back. Let's get on a fucking plane and just _go_."

She took a tentative breath. "It's..."

Lan Fan's eyes narrowed. "Please tell me this has nothing to do with the coworker."

"What? Of course not." Riza idly turned the glass in place, simply to occupy her hands. "Honestly, I needed to know what _normal_ felt like."

She waved a hand at the stitched cuts, the bullet wound below her ribs, the pistol on the table. "Does this look normal to you?"

"Point taken...but _this_ is all your fault." She refilled the glass and resumed her seat, pushing the beverage across the table. "I already have an identity set up for you. My name's Riza Hawkeye, you'll be my sister, Sierra. We can figure out the details, but you should probably lie low somewhere else for a while. We'll make sure you're safe and then reevaluate."

The brunette nodded and once again downed the water, dehydration catching up with her, and her voice came out in a whisper. "Thank you."

Riza inched her chair closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and when Lan Fan started to sob painfully she pulled her into a hug. She brushed the bangs from the young woman's forehead and rested a cheek atop her head, that hollow pang filling her chest. They'd lost so many friends, and the body count only ever rose.


	6. Best Laid Plans

**Best Laid Plans** – September 3rd – New York City

With a satisfied sigh Riza switched off her desk lamp, turning to admire the night sky beyond her windows. The phone in her purse vibrated and, for once, that muffled drone was not a portent of tragedy. Her 'sister' was in town for the weekend to collect a few important identity-related items, and they had actual dinner plans, like normal people. There was a small Greek restaurant Lan Fan had wanted to try, which supposedly served the best gyros this side of the Atlantic, and it was the perfect opportunity to begin the long discussion of their next move. A conversation always better managed in person.

After a few minutes she grabbed her purse and stood, shaking her head when she noticed the light spilling from Mustang's office, heard his voice on a phone call. She nudged the door open with a knee, gave him a sardonic smile, and as he set the phone down said, "Back so soon?"

He glanced up with a smirk, and jotted a couple words down on a notepad. "Says the woman who's _still_ _here_."

She took a few steps inside. "How's Silaris?"

"Fine. Still thinks it's five years ago, but fine." He took a breath. "She moved her meds into the laundry room, and when Sheska couldn't find them we worried she'd taken extra doses by mistake." After pausing to finish whatever thought he was writing, he said, "We rushed her to the emergency room, and _thankfully_ got the all clear. They didn't have to pump her stomach."

"That's a relief. I'm sure she was already frightened enough."

"Terrified. She's always disliked hospitals, even before." Mustang shook his head in disbelief. "She put the pillbox in the _dryer_. And there are times she doesn't even remember her own son." He ran a hand over his face and paced toward the door, changing the subject without warning, as though he needed the distraction. "You're leaving earlier than usual. Date tonight?"

She nodded. "My sister's back in town. It's a gyros and chick flicks kind of night."

"But nothing with Patrick Dempsey, I'm sure." He chuckled, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. "Does your sister hate him, too? Or is that just you?"

"Just me. Sierra hates George Clooney's hair...it makes her angry."

"You know, it's not our _fault_ that we age well and have great hair." He ran a hand through his own as if to illustrate the point. "Blame it on the genetic lottery."

"And just when I thought you couldn't possibly be more conceited," she incredulously began, "you put yourself in George's league."

"Always insulting me, Hawkeye," he said with an amused smile. "Why is that?"

"I'm pretty sure you deserve it."

"That's probably true," he agreed, his expression suddenly sobering as he fiddled with his wedding band. It was one of the rare moments in which he showed the strain caused by his wife's condition and, ever careful, his features soon returned to their usual opacity. With a push off the wall, he added, "You should escape while you can."

Riza checked her watch, and vacillated an instant before saying, "I have a little time before dinner if you want to grab a coffee. You look like you need a break."

He shook his head. "No, thanks. I have a lot to catch up on."

She stepped back into the hallway with a slow nod. "Have fun."

"You, too."

While her stroll to the elevator was a quiet one, her thoughts were preoccupied, and she found them centered on the enigma that was Roy Mustang. Over the course of her life, there were perhaps three people that she'd ever counted as true friends (three and a half if she included Miles), and this was the undeniable result of her upbringing. Her earliest years were filled with lies and misdirection, and Riza had been forced to learn one lesson quickly: _trust no on_ e. Thus, it had come as quite the surprise when she realized that, despite the innumerable secrets dividing them, Mustang had somehow brought that number up to four (and a half).

In fact, she made it a point to classify him as a friend, otherwise she would be forced to contemplate the way her smile lingered after they spoke. She'd never admit it aloud, but she occasionally wondered if his hands would be warm, what his hair might feel like between her fingers. His effect on her was incredibly inconvenient, and it was one of multiple reasons she suspected another disappearing act was in her near future.

Riza exhaled and stepped into the waiting elevator, shaking her head like it might rid her mind of its present musings. She checked her watch yet again, and had just decided to bring him a coffee before she met Lan Fan when his voice jolted her back to reality, "Hawkeye."

Mustang abruptly darted between the closing elevator doors and stopped not a foot from her. A curious smirk started to form on her lips, and she caught a hint of his cologne, noticed the scar on his left palm that she had not seen before. Her body warmed, keenly aware of his proximity in light of her recent train of thought, and on his face she saw a flash of that _look_ , the one she rarely caught. They stayed like that for a few floors, alone yet carefully reined in.

"So, coffee?" he finally asked, as the car began to slow. "I need to decompress, and if the invitation still stands…?"

Riza was about to accept, belatedly noticing that their descent was ending several floors early, and just as the doors slid open she heard the suppressed shot, felt the piercing pain near her left shoulder. Her eyes grew wide as Mustang started to fall forward and she caught him, red blossoming from a wound on his upper chest as her back hit the rear wall. She saw a gloved hand reach inside, pressing the button to keep the doors from shutting, and a cold voice said, "Miss _Hawkeye_ , is it?"

With an arm still wrapped around Mustang, she searched her bag for the one weapon she always carried, and to buy time replied, "Who's asking?"

The ploy was largely unnecessary, however, because the shooter only managed to utter a single haughty syllable, and then in one fluid motion she gripped the gun, flicked off the safety, and put a round in his skull. Her hand lowered as the assailant crumpled and Riza let out an uneven breath, her fingers lifting blood from Mustang's temple and eyes widening upon the realization that he must have hit his head on the rail when they fell. "Roy," she quietly beseeched, voice tense, carefully laying him on his back and wincing at the sharp pain in her left trapezius. "Shit...shit... _s_ _hit_."

Keeping pressure on the wound with one hand, she placed two fingers at the pulse point on his neck and exhaled in relief when she felt a rhythm. She then tossed the weapon into her bag and tore her second phone from beneath the lining, hurriedly dialing a number from memory. As it rang she hit the button for the doors to close, shrugging on her jacket to hide her own wound, and then put her hand to the injury once more. When the line was picked up, she said, "It's me. I ha..."

"Wait, _Julia_? What the fuck?"

"No questions. I need a professional clean on the thirteenth floor of the Raven building, near the elevators. And an office on the eighteenth needs wiped, the name's Hawkeye."

The man at the other end of the line paused, either to type some query into his computer or sip what was surely a cavity-inducing cocktail. "I have a crew six minutes out. Authorities?"

"Ten minutes max."

"Nah, I'll find a way to stall them."

She hung up and hid the phone in her back pocket, just in time for the doors to open, at which point she adopted her best terrified shout. " _Someone_ call 911! _Please_! Oh my god...is anyone there?!" Riza heard the guards before she saw them, their boots thudding heavily, and the first soon appeared in the doorway. "Call 911. He's been _shot_."

One man ran off again, speaking rapidly into a radio, and the next knelt beside her to look Roy over. "What happened?"

She shook her head uncertainly, playing the part of the frightened coworker. "I'm not sure. We...we were coming to the lobby, but the elevator stopped on the seventh floor. There was this guy, dressed all in black, and he shot him. Oh my god..."

"You're doing great, ma'am. Do you remember anything else?"

"He wore a mask, and he just fired and ran off…that way." She pointed toward the street. "Then the elevator kept going down." She paused, as if comprehension were dawning on her. "Do you think he's still _here_?"

"If he is, we'll find him." The security guard, whose name was Ian according to the tag on his jacket, eyed her shoulder. "Are you alright, ma'am?"

She pushed back the twinge of pain and nodded. "I'm fine. The blood's all his. I caught him when he fell."

When the sirens were audible from outside the building, he pushed her hand aside and said, "I'll take over. Please step out into the lobby."

With a nod she slowly stood, grabbing her bag while another guard was already taking her elbow to guide her out of the way. He left her near another elevator and indicated she should stay, the police would want to question her, but he was swiftly distracted by the arrival of emergency personnel pulling a stretcher. Cautiously she backed away and, once convinced she'd be missed in the chaos, disappeared through a door labeled 'Maintenance.' Her burner phone already in her hand, she dialed the same number and slipped out the rear of the building. "Me again."

"Seriously, what the _fuck_ is going on? You're supposed to be lying low in Idaho, or at least somewhere further away than, oh, I don't know... _New York_."

"That didn't work out so well."

"Wha..."

"I'll explain later, Havoc," she interrupted, gaze sweeping the sidewalk. "Are you in the Raven Building's security system?"

"Of course I am. Don't insult my expertise."

"Kill the cameras, and wipe all data for the past two hours." She raced across the street, glancing back to check for a tail. "And I need a photo of the hitter's face before your guys dispose of him."

"Sure thing, babe. Just like old times." He paused, and she heard an exhalation through the phone. "It's good to hear from you."

"You too." Her lips took on a nostalgic curve as she rounded a corner. "Are you available over the next few days? I may need an assist."

"Yeah, just let me know what you have in mind." She could hear the ice swishing around his glass, and the endless click of a keyboard.

"I'll be in touch." Riza stowed the burner in her coat pocket and reached for her other cell, hesitating an instant before deftly removing the back cover. She dropped the battery into a trash can, snapped the data card in two, and tossed the halves down separate grates. The rest of the phone was kicked down a drain pipe and she vanished into an alley when the chorus of sirens increased exponentially. Her chest sank as the ambulance flew past and, not for the first time, she wished she could have met Roy Mustang under different circumstances.


	7. The Calm

**The Calm** – September 4th – New York City

Just under six hours after the hit-man took a shot at her, Riza sat in a recently borrowed car, watching the hospital's rear entrance from a poorly lit corner of the parking lot. It was unwise, what she had in mind, but she needed to verify that Roy Mustang had not been sought out for cleaning purposes. Because he was very much a loose end, one who might have information concerning _her_ , the actual target. At least, that's what she told herself.

Part of her realized she'd been planning to check on him since the moment she left him to bleed in the care of strangers. It was the only fathomable reason that she'd interrupted her usual, self-imposed protocols to color and trim her hair, and purchase a pair of reading glasses that only worsened her vision if used properly. She tried to convince herself that the detour did not matter because, after all, she'd covered her tracks. The apartment was wiped and her few belongings cleared out, her tactical bag collected and waiting in the back seat, and thanks to Havoc's enterprising friends her office would be clean as well. In short, it would be as if Riza Hawkeye had never set foot in New York City, and the thought saddened her.

She rummaged briefly in the center console, fingers closing around the newest in an unending series of disposable phones, acquired at a convenience store whose security cameras had not recorded a single byte of data since the eighties. The first text was from 0114 and said, _Waiting on you, princess_ , which elicited a snort as she exited the car, pushing the irksome glasses up into her shorn hair, dyed a vibrant auburn that did little for her complexion, and none of it flattering.

The next message had come only seconds later: _I left you a present at your favorite spot._

With barely a glance at the keypad she typed, winding her way through vehicles: _You mean one of your lackeys did._

Havoc (0116): _Whatever. It's supposed to be the thought that counts._

Hawkeye (0117): _I did NOT miss you._

Havoc (0117): _You did. You SO did._

Shaking her head, she tucked the phone into her pocket and looked down to study her shoes and avoid cameras as she walked through the sliding doors. She followed signs to the nearest stairwell, climbing one floor to the Intensive Care Unit and spying through the slim glass pane before spinning to press her back to the heavy door. The police officer's radio squawked when he passed, and another man strode beside him in plain clothes, possibly a detective, or someone posing as a cop to gain access. Once the hall was clear, she stepped out and ducked into the nurse's station to check charts, taking a zip-up jacket from the back of a chair as she did. Finding his name, she strolled casually down the hall to room 213-C whilst flipping through the chart like she belonged.

With a surreptitious look toward each end of the corridor, she slipped inside and hurriedly closed the door, soon lowering the blinds on the window at the far end of the room. Turning slowly to face him, she let out a relieved breath she'd been unaware she was holding and set the chart by his feet. His right arm was in a sling and he slept with his head cocked a fraction to the left, like he'd been looking out the window when he drifted off. He almost certainly had not, because the anesthesia would still be working its way out of his system, but for some reason that little tilt made him look peaceful. Despite the steady vitals displayed on the monitor, she took his wrist and set two fingers at the pulse point. She needed to feel it for herself.

" _Jesus_ ," she muttered, eyes moving to the cut on his forehead, which looked monumentally worse under the harsh hospital lights. She resisted the impulse to brush his hair aside and, satisfied by the fact that his pulse had not wavered for a full minute, she gently squeezed his hand. "I'm _so_ sorry." She stepped away, unable to linger, and lifted the chart from atop the thin, blue blanket. "I promise you I'll fix this." Her head snapped up at the sound of the door handle turning, and she flipped the glasses down to her nose, opening the chart and fishing a pen from her pocket to feign the making of some notation. Thank god for nurses that stowed pens everywhere.

The potential detective from before entered, gaze jumping between her and the patient as he spoke into a somewhat dated flip-phone. "Yeah...no, he's fine..." He paused and then addressed her, "Is something wrong?" Back into the phone, he added, "No, no...the nurse is here."

She smiled reassuringly. "He's alright. Just had to update a few things before I left." Edging past him and into the hall, she said, "Have a nice night."

"Yeah, you too," he replied, still watching her curiously.

Riza deposited the pilfered chart at the nurse's station, grabbed some gauze and bandages from a supply room, and disappeared into the nearest restroom. She stopped before a mirror and surveyed her reflection, closing her eyes when the pressure around them began to intensify and patently refusing to name the emotion behind it. " _No_ ," came her whispered reminder, her right hand curling around a bandage as if to give the tension some other outlet. In this moment she could not afford to feel loss, to mourn whatever might have been, because for what came next she needed to be nothing less than cold and calculating.

Her breaths once more calm and even, she prepared to redress the wound, systematically setting out the betadine and opened packets of gauze. The jacket was already on the counter and her top midway up her torso when she heard the steps approaching the door. In a flash she pulled the weapon at her back and spun, disengaging the safety as the door swung inward.

"Whoa," greeted the same dark-haired man from Roy's room, raising his hands. "I come in peace."

"I'm not so sure." She raised her eyebrows expectantly. "I assume you know the drill."

He emptied his coat pockets and then tossed the garment over a stall door, turning to lift his shirt and show her the lack of a wire, as well as the gun holstered discreetly on his belt. The man then bent to raise his pant legs, revealing a small revolver at one ankle, and straightened with his hands in the air once more. "Look, I'm not involved in whatever you've got going on." One thumb hooked back toward the corridor. "My friend's shot, and you seemed like you might know why." When her eyes narrowed, he added, "I don't know a damn thing. Let's just say I recognized a kindred spirit. You can tell when someone's seen the darker side of things."

Riza observed him carefully, and kept the pistol trained on his left eye. "You're Maes."

The man's green eyes widened, and his jaw clenched. "Now where did you hear that name?"

"Silaris let it slip. She wasn't lucid, didn't realize it was a mistake." She lowered the weapon as a sign of good faith. "Your secret's safe with me."

He let his hands drop, indicating her shoulder with a gesture. "That looks painful."

She glanced at the deep red her current bandage had become, setting the gun on the counter within easy reach and in plain view. "It completely missed the subclavian artery and brachial plexus. I was lucky."

He pointed at the saturated gauze. "I can give you a hand. I'm excellent at bandaging strangers' bullet wounds."

"This happens to you often, does it?"

"More than it probably should." Maes appeared beside her after she yanked off her shirt and faced the mirror, his lopsided grin surely meant to disarm her. "A hazard of knowing Roy Mustang."

"Of course it is." She returned one hand to the firearm and, while he noticed, he did not seem to mind. His fingers were cold, and she involuntarily stiffened when he pulled the gauze back and dabbed at the sutures with disinfectant.

"Stitches haven't torn, but they might if you keep using it." He continued to clean off the injury, wiping away blood as he prepared to redress it.

"I haven't exactly been able to rest."

He momentarily caught her gaze in the glass. "Does he know anything he shouldn't?"

Riza was familiar with this game. He was helping her, sure, but he was also there to protect his friend if necessary. "No." She had the thought that was not entirely true, because Roy Mustang was one of the few that had ever bothered to remember details, like her favorite concerto, the darjeeling she adored at Cafe Versen, or the fact that she was always more comfortable curled up with a blanket, even in July. And he'd taken to keeping a plum knit throw in his office just for that reason.

He watched her again, temporarily taping a few pads in place while he reached for a roll of gauze. "Not even your name?"

She gave him a pointed look, voice quiet. "No."

"Well, my friend is lying in a hospital bed, and I have a feeling you're the reason." Maes shrugged a shoulder. "Makes me think something's up. Did you two…?"

" _No_...no, nothing like that." Riza shook her head.

He lifted her arm to wrap the joint and stabilize the bandage. "How _ever_ …?"

Her nod was reluctant. "I _care_."

"This idiotic visit is proof enough of that." He smirked, and she decided she rather liked Mustang's friend. "And the target?"

"The hitter was there for me. It was just shit luck that he was in the elevator." Riza turned to face him, gesticulating with the gun still in her hand. "I'll make sure he and his family are kept safe, and then I'm out of his life. The longer I stay, the more attention I could draw."

"I assume that means you have more than one secret admirer."

"I _did_ make a lot of friends." She tapped the muzzle on the counter a few times. "And they could come calling at anytime."

"You know, the medics claimed a blonde woman was with him, but she got away." He crossed his arms, expression amused. "She's a person of interest."

"Something tells me they'll never find her." She pulled her top over her head, the motion painful and awkward with her wrapped shoulder, and holstered the gun with a slight frown. "I'm not who he thinks."

"If that were true, you wouldn't be going to these lengths to protect him."

"Maybe," Riza murmured thoughtfully, rolling the bloody bandages up in a sheaf of paper towel; she could never leave anything behind. "Take care of him."

He nodded. "Just out of curiosity, what will you do?"

Her lips pursed momentarily and, as she walked out the door, she said, "What I should've done eight years ago."

She returned promptly to the car, tossing the bloody collection into the trunk before driving north toward the highway. The music on the radio was a blur, intruding on thoughts which she suddenly found overwhelming, and Riza flipped the volume down with more anger than was warranted. She hated that she was forced to leave like this, _again_ , forced to uproot her life when it had finally not been complete shit. She supposed this was definitive proof that her grandfather had been correct: _You can never run away, Riza. You must deal with your past, for it will always find you._

She _hated_ that he was right.


	8. The Storm

**The Storm** – September 4th – Twenty miles north of NYC

Riza dragged a crowbar from beneath her duffel, soundlessly closing the trunk before making her way down the overgrown lane. Ominous iron gates hung open up ahead, the metal long-since rusted, and between the vertical pickets she could see the dim facade of an abandoned hospital, the type once known as a sanatorium. Gothic-inspired buttresses towered against the night sky, their pinnacles chipped and ornamental statues made faceless by the elements, or vandalism. Shards of glass crunched under her boots as she climbed the front steps, meager remnants of the building's many broken windows, and from somewhere within echoed the high-pitched shriek of a barn owl.

She paused in the arched doorway, shreds of the former door hanging from the hinges, and then started up the wide, dilapidated staircase in the center of the lobby. Unidentifiable fragments were strewn about the corridors, and portions of forgotten beds and tables had been piled haphazardly in the rooms she passed. At regular intervals light would peak from beneath a closed door, illuminating slices of the otherwise dark hallway. Occasionally she'd come across a guard, standing statue-like against the wall, and they let her continue unhindered.

After ten minutes she reached a heavy metal door, and the musclebound enforcer in front of it eyed the prybar with mild interest, smirking at the dried blood on one end. His voice held the rasp of a longtime smoker when he said, "He's not seeing patients."

"That's nice for him." She subtly tightened her grip on the bar. "I'll give you a play, let's say, _The Tempest_ , Act II. Now, you give me the trigger phrase."

The man shook his head, and she heard telltale footsteps at her back. "I said, he's not seeing patients."

"Right." She tilted her head, as if in thought. "That's not going to work for me. I'm on a schedule."

He chuckled. "Well that's just too...fuckin...bad."

Riza gave a slow, resigned nod and then spun, whipping the crowbar against the jaw of the thug behind her. Finishing the turn, she knocked a gun from the first guard's hand, kicked him into the door, and reached back to hook the curved end around the second man's ankle. With a powerful yank she pulled his feet from under him and twisted again, this time delivering a calculated blow to the enforcer's head. She returned her attention to her still conscious opponent, kicked him in the stomach, and stooped to draw his firearm.

Pressing the swan's neck against his airway, and ignoring the resurgence of pain in her trapezius, she said, "It's really best if you stay there." He made a gurgling noise that she took for assent, and then she knelt beside the other man to remove the keys from his belt. "For the record, the correct answer was _Claribel_. And then I would've said... _she that is Queen of Tunis, she that dwells ten leagues beyond man's life_."

With a glance toward the footsteps coming down the hall, she unlocked the door and slammed it shut, the deep thud softly reverberating in the vacant room. She crossed the tiled floor and knocked on another entrance, this one wooden with a dark stain and an antique iron latch. It started to swing open, and a voice said, "I believe I was _very_ clear..."

"I was persistent," she interrupted.

Miles stared from the doorway, red eyes wide. "Holy shit."

She placed the bar at his sternum and pushed him into the room, displaying a photo on her cell and tossing him the device. "A hitter came looking for me. Is the payer who I think?"

He nodded, leaning against his desk and smoothing the white hair that stuck out of his pony tail. "You're welcome, by the way. I sent my worst guy."

"So I gathered."

"I would've warned you, but I didn't have time to get a message to anyone that could reach you. The contract only came down two hours before the deadline. The payer was impatient." He gestured at the metal still pressed to his chest. "Is _this_ necessary?"

Riza lowered the prybar, tapping one end on the floor and glancing around the room. "I needed to make an entrance, see exactly where you stood." His office was surprisingly warm, with hardwood floors, bookcases lining one wall, and a few lamps emitting soft light. In the far corner rose an immaculate Waterbury grandfather clock that he never kept wound, but she knew a shotgun was hidden within the pendulum case. Meeting his eye, she said, "Tell Clarence the hit was successful, and I'll triple your commission."

Miles nodded again. "Done."

"I may be going through one of your competitors soon. Try not to be offended." She started for the door, and added, "Your morons will be fine, by the way. I didn't break any bones. Call it a professional courtesy."

"Noted. I'll make sure they don't bother you on the way out."

She paused in the doorway to face him again, her expression curious. "Since when did you stop using _The Tempest_?"

He laughed, crossing his arms and rubbing a hand over his jaw. "No wonder they didn't let you in. I decommissioned those codes a few years ago." Miles considered her silently, his gaze calculating. "I'd be happy to bring them back."

"I'll keep that in mind." Riza turned to leave and said over her shoulder, "You'll get your money next week."

With that she was gone, striding past that solid metal door and back through the eerie hospital corridors. The night air was cool when she stepped outside, a marked improvement over the building's dusty interior, and in a nearby tree ravens cackled ominously. The crowbar was soon tossed unceremoniously into the trunk, and she checked her watch as she followed the winding lane.

Her eyes were drawn to the tactical case in the back seat, the one she'd picked up from a storage locker she still had under the name Nadia. And beside it sat the go-bag Havoc had left in her supposed 'favorite spot,' which he apparently thought was a dumpster at a roadside gas station. Fight or flight, those were her options. Lex wanted her to run, to vanish and island hop until the sight of beaches and piña coladas made them sick, but she was done hiding. In all honesty, she'd made her decision the moment he was shot.

Thus, she took the highway toward the city, and in just over a half hour she was traversing the familiar streets of Manhattan, surprised to see a few pedestrians strolling along the sidewalks despite the hour. Streetlights flashed through the windows, the effect almost hypnotic, and then she pulled into the subterranean parking structure of an apartment building. Her footfalls echoed off concrete walls and, just for an instant, she felt more alone than ever before. She ran a thumb over her own fingertips, recalling the feel of Mustang's wrist, the skin warm and soft.

Tactical case in one hand, Riza took the elevator to the top floor and bee-lined for a stairwell that led to the roof, picking the lock with ease. The roof was rectangular, with a four-foot high and two-foot thick wall running along the perimeter to keep people from falling to their deaths. Vents dotted the surface, and at the opposite end a tenant had left a patio table covered with several potted plants. Aside from a visual sweep to ensure she was alone, Riza ignored the southern end of the building and paced toward the northwestern corner, which looked out over Central Park. In spite of herself a smile graced her lips and, still appreciating the view, she finally fit an earbud in place and called Havoc.

His greeting was less than friendly. "Where the _shit_ are you? Lex is itching to get on a plane, and I went to all this trouble setting up fresh ID's for you..."

"Tell her to leave without me," she said, kneeling to open the case. "And tell her I'd really appreciate it if she went to Hawaii."

He snorted. "Umm, _why_ , crazy lady?"

"I need her to get a message to someone. I'll send her the name later."

There was conversation on his end, and she heard the soft fizz of an energy drink being opened. "She says fine, but we're both confused. Now, where are you?"

"On top of a building in Manhattan, about to say hello to an old friend." Riza lifted the rifle from the case and flipped out the bipod. "Could you get in touch with Brosh's fixer?"

"Of course I can, because I'm flawless, and you should already know that." His music was suddenly turned town, and his tone sobered. "Alright, _Jul_..."

"Please don't call me that," Riza quietly interrupted, and she immediately despised the waver in her voice.

"Okay..."

"It's stupid, I know, but..." She paused, grabbing the scope and a box of match-grade ammunition. "...just pick something else."

"Okay, screw _name_ _s_ , it's code names that are all the rage right now, anyway. Aaah…" That syllable continued for a solid ten seconds, until he said, "I got it. You be the Captain, and I'll be Tennille."

"Oh my god." She shook her head, fitting the scope in place with a skilled grace that seemed ironic, given it's purpose. "I take it back."

"Wilson and Phillips? Freddie and Mercury?"

"We're the only ones on the line," she replied, pulling out one round along with a spare. "Do we really need code names?"

" _Yes_ , Captain."

" _Fine_ , Jackass."

He chuckled. "You feel better, right?"

"If I say _yes_ , can we move on?" Riza asked, securing the scope.

"You betcha."

"Then _yes_." She made a few quick adjustments to the sights, and focused her attention on a darkened window across the park, fourth from the top of a magnificent Fifth Avenue apartment building. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was nearly 0300 and slid a round into the chamber, watching that window carefully.

"Alright, we may have gotten off topic." He cleared his throat. "Why am I contacting Brosh's go-to fixer?"

"Well..." She took long, slow breaths, and felt the tension leave her body. "You know those contracts the Brosh syndicate is offering on the Armstrongs?"

" _Yes_." Apprehension was clear in his tone. "And you know as well as I do that those head honchos order hits on each other all the time. Almost as often as they order pizza. It doesn't really mean anything, just makes them feel cool, and nobody _takes_ them."

"Accept them for me."

"Hey lady, here's the thing, nobody takes them because _they're impossible_. Ol' Clarebear has a fucking army."

"Yes, I know, now accept the contracts." Riza made another minute adjustment. "I'm going to do the work, I might as well get paid."

"Holy shit, Jules. Are you fucking _serious_?" There was the tinkle of ice, because apparently he needed a drink, and then he asked, "What the hell happened?"

"I've let them get away with too much, that's what happened. First Mom and Walter, then Bec, and now..." She gave an uncharacteristically audible sigh. "I'm _done_ , Havoc. I'm out, and I'm getting Lex out, too. For good."

"No judgment here, babe, but this feels a helluva lot like getting back in." She heard the ice once more as something was poured over it, probably vodka. "And sorry, when I said Jules before I meant _Captain Crazy Pants_."

"It needs to end, this is just how it's done." Riza loosened her shoulders, and the motion was followed by an inevitable wave of pain.

"And you're gonna make sure everybody knows your retirement's official," he supplied.

"Yes." One of the windows in that unit suddenly glowed, and her finger curled around the trigger with unique familiarity. "If you want to step away, I understand."

"No, I'm in. Just... _shit_. It'll have to be a perfect game. As in _perfect_."

"No mistakes, no quarter given. I'm aware." Another window brightened, and she inhaled deeply, letting it escape in a controlled manner. The light in the dining room she watched finally flicked on, and she squeezed the trigger just as golden-child Alex Armstrong appeared in the doorway, his silk robe flowing imperiously. The bullet pierced his skull just above the ear, blood spattered on the light gray wall as he dropped from view, and she crouched behind the balustrade to fit the weapon back in its case. "That's one."

Havoc exhaled heavily, and she just knew he was shaking his head. "And here we go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you've enjoyed the story so far, and have a good one :)


	9. The Second

**The Second** – September 6th – The Philippines

Two days later, Riza strolled through the Armstrong family's ostentatious villa located on one of the wealthier Philippine islands. The building was an odd blend of styles, with the exterior having been altered to give the impression of Spanish influences, while the interior was what an obsequious designer might call 'eclectic,' if only to avoid being fired. Each room was filled with plush furniture and hideously extravagant decor, chosen more to highlight the size of the owner's bank account than to make the space remotely inviting. In fact, on a single wall she'd found a gaudy gold-framed mirror, a priceless painting from a well-known artist, several pieces of sports memorabilia, and a Mayan fertility plaque, all thoughtlessly jumbled together. If her mind were not preoccupied, she might be tempted to reorganize, or rescue, several pieces.

When she entered the rearmost room she paused, pleasantly surprised by the rich hardwood floors and abundant natural light. The furnishings were much the same as the rest of the house, and she spared them little attention, making directly for the wall of glass overlooking the waters below. There was no deck nor railing to speak of, and the ground fell sharply away mere feet from where she stood, plummeting straight downward. Her eyes already on the yacht some distance away, she slid one of the doors open and glanced at her watch, deciding that she had thirty minutes before the tranquilized guards would begin to wake. Plenty of time, really.

With another look over the edge, she set the case on the floor and knelt, carefully preparing the rifle while keeping an eye on the boat. Pulling out one bullet and a spare, to be safe, she tapped the earpiece already in place and said, "Ready."

"It's about goddamn time," Havoc instantly retorted. "Don't take this personally, but I think you've lost your edge."

"The guards only took me thirty seconds, and there were twelve." She lay on her stomach, positioning the weapon until she was settled comfortably. "If you still have doubts, I'd be happy to demonstrate my _edge_ the next time I see you."

"Touchy, touchy," Lan Fan teased. "But _Tennille_ here should really learn not to poke the bear."

"And _you_ probably shouldn't call her a _bear_ ," Havoc replied, adding in a whisper, "She doesn't like it."

Riza exhaled both ritualistically and in frustration, using the scope to scan the deck of the presently anchored sail boat. The flag flapping at the stern was a useful indicator of wind direction and speed, and she made a few mental calculations, following the bright blonde head that materialized from the cabin. The woman was noticeably shorter and slimmer than her elder brother, and her long hair had been gathered in a disheveled knot that belied the effort expended by Catherine Armstrong for the sake of her appearance. Not only was she her father's right-hand woman, but she managed the organization's human trafficking branch of operations, and had been solely responsible for pulling the late Rebecca Catalina into that seedy world.

To say that Riza disliked her would be an understatement, and she let out another breath to distract from the contraction in her gut. "Target acquired."

"Alright, I'm here," Lan Fan began. "And I'll be honest, I'm psyched."

"Yes, I've always thought of dead drops as the pinnacle of excitement," Havoc dryly intoned.

"I've never been to _Hawaii_ before, okay?"

"Ya know, Lex, they have a university there." Riza smirked, reaching ahead to make an adjustment to the scope and shifting her legs for greater stability in her stance. She tracked Catherine to the bow, where the woman poured herself a glass of champagne, and then panned over the cabin windows once again.

"It's so going on the list."

"No, no, no. Our little peach needs a _party_ school." The click of a keyboard came through from his end, and then he somewhat cryptically added, "Life lessons, kids. They're important."

"She's had plenty of those." With another measured inhalation, Riza squeezed the trigger, watching as the bullet pierced Catherine's skull just to the right of the massive ponytail. "That's two."

"Uhh, Hawkeye, my darling," Havoc started to say, as she slid the glass door shut and removed the spent round from the rifle. "The Curtis kid might be with her. I found an alias of his that traveled to the Philippines a week ago."

"Good." She fit the weapon back into her case and stood, setting the casing on the edge of the wine bar she passed on the way out of the room. "He can talk to Clarence, tell him how someone drugged his guards, stole his car, and took out his daughter. All without leaving a trace."

He chuckled. "I really missed the way you taunt the criminal elite."

"I know," she replied, unable to deny how much she _enjoyed_ it. Despite that thrill, in her mind this adventure could not end soon enough.

Riza took a set of stairs down to the expansive garage beneath that floor, eyeing her reflection in the tinted windows of an impressive BMW. She strolled amongst the collection of contemporary and antique vehicles, smiling when her gaze alighted on a gleaming charcoal gray Audi worth at least six million dollars. Pilfering the keys from a case on the wall, she paused to replace the plates with the set she'd brought and then slid into the leather driver's seat. The windows were tinted, it still boasted that new car scent, and she ran a hand along the leather-clad steering wheel. "Shit, this car is sexy."

"Which one?" Lan Fan asked. "I've got money on the _Beemer_. baby."

"Nope, I'm going Aston Martin," Havoc said. "She's always had a thing for English guys."

"You're both wrong." Still grinning, Riza sped out of the garage and through the property gate, the engine practically purring as her foot pressed the gas. "I went with the Audi. Progress, Lan Fan?"

"Target in sight...I'm moving in. Who is she, again?"

"We worked together a few years before I left. She went by Olivier Fortin when I knew her. I'm not sure what she's calling herself now."

"She _looks_ like one of them. An Armstrong."

"I'm thinkin that's the idea," the hacker commented.

Finally, Lan Fan said, "Message dropped with a gin and tonic, as requested. I'm going offline for a while. There's a hot guy at the bar I should really talk to."

"Thanks. Be careful, Lex." Riza lacked the time to say anything else because the phone in her pocket buzzed, and her smile reappeared. Accepting the call, she said, "Hey, you."

"Hey, _you_. Long time." There was a brief pause while Olivier addressed someone on her end of the call. "So, you're not dead."

"No, but I'm happy the news has traveled so far." She took a curve at a depressingly responsible speed to avoid drawing attention to herself, and diligently checked her mirrors for tails. "I'll get right to the point. The Armstrong organization is in the midst of some pretty drastic restructuring. How would you like an empire, free of charge?"

When Olivier next spoke, her grin was audible. "I _love_ it when you call me."


	10. The Third

**The Third** – September 12th – Rome

The stretch limousine drifted slowly along congested Roman streets, and Riza idly tapped the crystal tumbler against her leg, watching the Eternal City crawl past the window. The ice in her vodka-rocks clinked rhythmically, and she'd taken nary a sip since Havoc handed her the drink thirty minutes earlier. Finally, he exhaled sharply and set a hand on the glass, saying, "That _needs_ to stop."

She smirked, taking a long swig that left only ice. "Guess I'm a little tense."

"Is the _lawyer_ really worth all this?" He paused, performing some technological feat on his smartphone. "I'm aware I've already asked. I just want to know you're sure about this." He poured a tad more champagne into his flute. "Because we're about to walk right into the fucking lion's den. And it better be worth it."

"I don't know what he is, but he's not a lawyer." Her voice softened. "And it's not about him."

"So you've said."

"Alright, yes, I wanted to make sure no one went after him. But tonight…?" Riza gave him a pointed glance. "Tonight's about _me_ , Jean. I let Clarence run my life for too long, first with Walter and Mom, then with Bec. And because of him I kept hiding." She shook her head. "No more. I want my freedom, and I'm _taking_ it."

"Alright, then," he said with a nod of approval, foregoing the glass in favor of swigging straight from the bottle. "It's about damn time."

She looked over in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. It was hell when you were gone." He returned the bottle to the ice bucket, deliberately mussing his blond hair and rapidly typing into his phone again. "We need people like you to keep crazy fuckers like Clarence in line."

She adjusted the holster strapped to her thigh, and quietly added, "This is your last chance to walk away, Havoc."

"Are you kidding? The bastard got Bec hooked on every drug under the sun, and once he was sick of her the fucker left her for dead." His jaw set. "I'm not going _anywhere_."

Riza shared a look with him, and momentarily squeezed his hand. "Thank you."

The limousine finally slowed, and he slipped the phone into her clutch with a grin. "This is gonna be _fun_."

When the vehicle came to a stop he alighted, offering a hand to help her out, and when she did it was before the front steps of a palatial mansion owned by one of Armstrong's favorite smugglers. The many windows glittered brightly, and a line of tall cypress ran to her left, disappearing from view as it continued past the old carriage house. Armed guards patrolled the property, and she performed some discreet reconnaissance as they approached the main entrance, spotting six guards in front of the edifice.

They climbed one of two staircases leading up to the portico, the decorative tile beneath her feet easily five-hundred years old. Carved molding adorned the doorways and window frames, and within the building one could find a perfectly executed fresco on many a wall. Serving staff directed them across the gleaming floors of the foyer toward the rear of the house, her eyes roving the heirloom furnishings and priceless antiques. During the few minutes they were inside, she spotted an 18th century mahogany writing desk, a seemingly original Monet displayed on a wall to her right, and what might have been a genuine Lalique glass vase. Without closer inspection she could not be certain and, whether authentic or not, it was clear a great deal of money had been thrown around. Just once, she'd like to see a wealthy criminal with a taste more discerning than 'anything and everything expensive.'

At the rear door, she accepted the glass of champagne Havoc plucked from a tray and stepped out onto a surprisingly verdant terrace. More trees rose from the garden below, carefully curated vines crept around balusters, and flowers had been planted in large stone urns spaced evenly apart. Some guests milled around on the patio, but most had gathered on the wide, stone-paved path leading up to an obnoxiously extravagant fountain. Waiters moved among them, some delivering specially ordered drinks, while others circulated with an unending series of champagne flutes and platters of hors d'oeuvres.

"So, mingle? Or down to business?" Havoc asked as they descended the stairs in the direction of the fountain.

She smirked, raising the glass to her lips. "Why wait?"

"Good _god_ , it's nice to be working with a true professional again," he grinned, stealing some unsuspecting party-goer's beverage from another tray. "I'm getting paid for this, right?"

"Handsomely." She shrugged a shoulder. "If something happens to me, just deduct your salary from the account I gave you. Everything else goes to Lan Fan."

"Will do." He grimaced slightly upon tasting his pilfered drink. "There's nowhere near enough vodka in this. I thought this was a classy affair."

In the process of visually scanning the party, Riza's hand momentarily tightened on his arm. "At your two o'clock."

Clarence Armstrong stood at the edge of the path, beneath the boughs of a beautiful Italian stone pine, his newest wife hanging on his arm. A few inches shorter than his spouse, his trim build was that of an athlete, and like his son he kept his scalp clean-shaven. Though not as physically imposing as Alex had been, he exuded an air of calm, unquestioned authority that only came from the possession of real power and the expertise to wield it. Over the years he'd developed a sadistic reputation, but in truth he merely employed an austere, merciless logic in all his dealings. He was never cruel for cruelty's sake, he was _indifferent_. The patriarch of the Armstrong family did as he pleased, consequences and victims be damned.

She shared a look with Havoc and he downed the mystery cocktail in his glass, swiping another at random as they ambled toward their target. It took them just under a minute to maneuver through the other attendees, but they soon reached the stone pine, and his look of surprise was immensely satisfying, even if it vanished in an instant. With a corner of her lips quirked, because she could not help herself entirely, she said, "Hi there, Clarence."

"Julia, you look lovely." His eyes were cold, and his smile deceptively warm. "What a wonderful surprise. We'd heard the most ridiculous rumor."

"Yes, that...just a slight mix-up. I'm perfectly fine." Riza gestured toward her companion with her champagne and added, "You know my friend Jean, of course."

"I do. He did some excellent work for us a few years back." Clarence placed a hand at the small of his wife's back and gave her a brief look, at which point she walked away without question. "Julia, would you kindly accompany me to Rick's office? There's something I'd like to discuss."

"Certainly." Catching Havoc's eye momentarily, she handed him her glass and followed Armstrong down a different garden path that led to the northern wing of the manse. They walked in silence, two of his guards a half-step behind them, and her expression lost its feigned amiability as soon as they left the festivities behind. He led them through an old iron gate onto a more isolated patio, from which they accessed a dimly lit, two-story study. Built-in bookcases lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and in the far corner there was even a rolling ladder, positioned near the encyclopedias.

While Clarence poured himself a drink she stopped immediately inside the entrance, removing her thigh holster and passing it to the guard on her right. She then opened her clutch for the other to peruse, to prove that she was otherwise unarmed, and at a signal from their employer the men retreated outside and closed the doors. Silence reigned as she strolled further into the room, and she noted with some amusement that Armstrong was pointedly keeping away from the few windows. He watched her with an analytical eye and downed the exceptionally smooth Suntory Hibiki thirty-five, a limited series whiskey worth around forty grand. "Do you plan to offer your condolences on the deaths of my children?"

"That's not my style." Riza took a few more casual steps forward, shaking her head gently. "We both know the truth."

"To the point...that's one thing I've always appreciated about you." He exhaled slowly, following it up with another drink and loosening his tie with the other hand. "Since we're being direct, I'll admit I liked you better than my own children. Still, I can't let these slights against the family go unanswered."

"Of course not." She gave another shake of the head. "I'd expect nothing less."

His gaze was once more coldly analytical. "You come here to confront me, on the arm of some two-bit thief...what do you hope to accomplish?" He waved a hand at the nearest window. "Surely you can't expect me to walk into some sniper's line of sight. I'm not without common sense." The man paused to remove his jacket, laying it across the arm of a chair. "And you're much too intelligent to try something _here_ , you'd never make it out. Therefore, the only conclusion I can reach is that you want to look me in the eye when I kill you."

"How well you know me, Clarence," she said with a smirk. "What do I have to look forward to? One between the eyes like you gave my grandfather, perhaps?"

A derisive chuckle escaped him, and he drank deeply, pointing at her with the glass. "Walter was a myopic fool. I did the world a favor. And while we're on memory lane, your precious Becca knew what she was getting into."

"You _would_ see it that way."

"You're pragmatic. Of everyone, _you_ should understand." He shrugged in utter incredulity, pouring another finger of whiskey. "Your grandfather was an obstacle that needed removed."

"And what, exactly, was _pragmatic_ about what you did to Becca?"

"We disagreed on when to terminate the relationship. I merely persuaded her to see things my way."

Her jaw clenched. "Persuasion? Is that what you call a lethal dose of heroin?" She watched as he unfastened the top button of his collared shirt. "You really are an arrogant prick, Clarence. I never understood what Bec or Elizabeth saw in you."

"That would be my bank account, not to mention my other sizable endowments." He smirked and rolled up his shirtsleeves, opening a case near the decanter to reveal a pistol with pearl inlay. "But mostly they saw freedom."

"Or thought they did," she replied, and saw him absentmindedly adjust his collar once more. "And you were wrong, actually. I came to tender my resignation in person. You may consider it permanent."

"How thoughtful." Briefly he placed the muzzle beneath her chin, tilting her face upward. "You always did have manners, unlike my children."

"That's true enough." Riza picked up his jacket, folding it more neatly in half before draping it over the chair again. "You've obviously been feeling warm. The shortness of breath should set in soon."

"Excuse me?" His expression held the same sardonic amusement, but his voice had taken on a rough quality, and the furrow of his brow hinted at a sliver of doubt.

"It's incredible, everything Rick's done to modernize this place. And it's all linked to that security system, which is amazingly useful for people like Havoc." She pulled her friend's phone from her clutch and pressed a brief sequence of keys, at which point the door locks engaged, blinds flipped shut to block them from view, and bullet-proof panels rolled down over the windows. "He's not just any thief, by the way. He's the best hacker in the game. I'm surprised Bec never told you." His breaths were now coupled with an audible wheeze, and he seemed slightly unsteady on his feet. "And this room is sound-proofed, in case you were thinking of increasing the volume. Though I doubt you can at this point."

" _This_ isn't your style either." Clarence eyed the whiskey with the beginnings of a sneer, and his next inhalation was noticeably more shallow. He brandished the gun and she ripped it easily from his weakened grip, catching the glass as it slipped inelegantly from his fingers before pushing him back into an armchair.

"I did hate to ruin the Hibiki, but needs must." Riza set the rescued beverage on a table and then pulled back the slide to remove the chambered round, releasing the clip to fall on the floor and placing the pistol beside the whiskey. "What you're experiencing is a gradual paralysis and, in my opinion, it's much kinder than you deserve."

He glared from his seat, struggling to sit straight, his respirations growing shorter and more ragged. "I gave you... _everything_."

"You _took_ everything." She met his gaze unflinchingly, but a rebellious tear slipped out. "And you turned me into this _thing_ that's capable of watching a man die."

"I made you strong."

She shook her head. "I was so naive, I even thought you loved her. And then you killed her."

He sucked in air with an ominous rasp, his gaze meaningful, and when he spoke it was interrupted by inhalations. "Did it...for you...Liz...held you...back...No...vision..."

"Right, of course, you murdered my mother to help me. And then fifteen years later you tried to have me killed." She perched on the sofa, watching him ineffectually clutch his chest. "I believe some people would call those _mixed signals_."

He managed a lopsided shrug, coupled with another gravelly breath, his head falling back against the chair. "Fuck...you...Jules..." he finally said, with a reedy exhalation that was followed by silence.

"Goodbye, Clarence." Riza contemplated his slumped form for several seconds, and then crossed toward him to check his pulse, because part of her would not believe it until she knew for certain. Once convinced there was no rhythm whatsoever, she slid the petite black notebook from his front pocket and removed his watch. Tucking both items into her clutch, she pressed another key on the phone and a lock instantly clicked open at the far end of the room. Through that doorway was a corridor, and she followed it back toward the grand entryway, taking the front steps to the idling limousine.

As soon as she was seated, Havoc took his phone from her hand and asked, "Well?"

She simply nodded her affirmation. "Liv?"

"Waiting at the hotel, ready to make her first appearance as Clarence's mysterious eldest daughter."

Riza nodded once more, exhaling slowly, and when she closed her eyes a few remaining tears crept down her cheeks. She was finally _free_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapters, and have a good one :)


	11. Sins of the Past

**Sins of the Past** – Three Years Later – Larchmont

With a tired breath Roy closed the file for the Baker-Whitlow merger, reaching for his midnight coffee and wandering into the kitchen for a warm-up. He took an inordinately long drink, rubbed a hand over his face as if it might revive him, and exasperatedly eyed the stack of folders still awaiting his attention. They were all cases he needed to have prepped by the following Monday, and that weekend the firm wanted him to attend a party in the Hamptons, not to mention an exclusive wine tasting upstate. He was seriously wondering when he would find the time for actual _work_ , what with all the client-wooing on his agenda.

He moved to open the sliding glass door that led to the deck, gulping down more coffee while he looked out over the backyard. The house was silent, at times oppressively so, and even though Silaris had passed a little more than a year ago, he'd never quite accustomed himself to the pervasive quiet. Of course, it was compounded by the fact that Ling had started his next semester at Brown shortly thereafter, leaving Roy to ramble around the spacious house alone. The kid came to visit every so often, but ever since the funeral their relationship had been best described as _tense_ , making their reunions more obligatory than pleasant. There were things he simply could not explain, and he hoped one day Ling would understand that.

On the thought of his stepson, he retrieved his phone from the table and dialed a number, ignoring for the time being the various work-related notifications. When he reached Ling's voicemail yet again, he let out a subdued sigh and said, "It's me. Take a break from partying and call me back, or I _will_ drive up there to make sure you're not dead. And I'll do everything in my power to embarrass you in front of you friends. That's a promise." He paused for a second, and added, "And I still owe you a dinner for your birthday. My treat...obviously."

He ended the call after that awkward invitation, giving himself an irked shake of the head, because he could eloquently address an entire courtroom but was incapable of talking to his own _stepson_. Tossing the phone back on the tabletop, he refilled his mug once more and resumed his seat, opening the next file, this one a prenuptial agreement his boss had asked him to handle. It was outside his area of expertise, but he was angling to make partner, and the occasional favor was useful in that respect. That was the hope, at any rate.

His review had only reached the second page when the doorbell rang, and he threw a bewildered glance at a clock that read 0130. "...the _hell_ …?"

Roy strode toward the front door and stopped in the darkened living room to scan the yard, finding the driveway suspiciously empty. Unfortunately, from that position he did not have a clear view of the small porch and, as he continued toward the entryway, he paused to remove a pistol from the underside of a console table. To this day he kept it well-maintained and loaded, despite the fact he'd not needed that particular precaution in at least seven years, but in that moment he was truly grateful for his own cautious compulsions.

Racking the slide, he peeked through the side panel window and yanked the door open a moment later. Ling lay in a bloody heap on the stoop, with a colorful shiner at the edge of his swollen right eye, a serious cut on his cheek, and a dirty cloth wrapped around his left forearm. " _Fuck._ "

He carefully pulled the younger man into the foyer, squinting into the darkness in case the culprits planned to have round two on the front steps of his house. Once the door was locked, Roy knelt to check his vitals, breathing in relief when he found a steady rhythm and saw the younger man inhale. He was just about to race for his phone when the cloth dislodged, revealing a crudely executed tattoo, unquestionably recent, and he presumed it had been done without Ling's consent. The thought infuriated him, to be sure, but it was the tattoo itself that caused his grip on the firearm to anxiously tighten. It was a name, written in a sharp, angular script: _Nick Sylvaine_.

His mouth formed a grim line, and when a faint ring came from somewhere on the injured man his gut sank. He fished a phone from the pocket of Ling's blood-streaked jacket, well aware of the caller's identity despite the unknown series of digits splayed across the screen. Taking a careful breath to school his emotions, he swiped to answer, and an icy voice he had not heard in more than a decade said, "Hello, Nick. You have some outstanding debts."

"That doesn't sound like me." He returned to the kitchen, bypassing his cell on the table and removing the burner he kept in a box of cereal in the pantry.

"You haven't changed." There was a snide laugh. "You'll repay every fucking _cent_ , or next time I won't be so gentle."

He stopped beside Ling once more and raked an agitated hand through his hair, but kept his tone casual. "All this over a few million bucks?"

"It was _forty_ , you piece of shit, and you have one week. Refusal would be dangerous for anyone you care about, naturally."

"There aren't many people left that fit that description."

"I'm not sure that's my fault." Another laugh. "One week, Nick, or he gets a bullet instead of ink."

" _Fuck_ ," Roy repeated as soon as the call ended, furiously chucking the device into the kitchen and hearing it skitter across the floor. He then produced the burner, checking Ling's pulse yet again while dialing a number he'd memorized years ago, for emergencies only. When the ringing stopped he said, "I need a doctor that won't ask questions. And we need to meet. _Now_."

Within twenty minutes there was a sharp-faced gentleman at his door with thick-rimmed glasses on his nose and a rolling suitcase trailing behind him. He examined Ling's injuries, and treated the cuts as well as the tattoo, pulling an impressive array of medical supplies from the case. He spoke only to ask a few questions related to medical history, and to provide directions for the use of medications which soon materialized from the hospital-on-wheels. Otherwise he was quiet and, more importantly, completely unconcerned with the circumstances that led to such wounds.

The man left after a mere half hour, and Roy handed him a considerable amount of cash as compensation for both his haste and continued silence. Then, while his stepson remained unconscious, he went about packing bags for each of them, purposefully leaving their phones on the kitchen table with the forgotten files. He eyed the clock yet again and reluctantly knelt to wake the patient, because their escape would be _much_ easier if he could walk. "Ling." When that elicited no response he shook his shoulder, and repeated, " _Ling_."

He groaned, wincing when he tried to stretch, and then his left eye opened in a squint and he rasped, "Where…?"

"You're home." He looked up at the door when light flashed across the windows, but it was just a passing vehicle. "Your eye will be fine, and we have some meds to help with the pain."

His brow drew downward, inadvertently putting pressure on his swollen eye, and he groaned again. " _Roy_? What the _hell_..."

"I'll explain later, but right now we have to get out of here. Can you walk?"

"Maybe." Ling slowly pushed himself into a seated position, and grimaced upon putting weight on the tattooed arm. "Who...?"

"Like I said, we'll talk later." Roy took his uninjured arm to help pull him up, briefly supporting him while he steadied himself. "I only need you mobile for a few minutes."

The younger man gave him a strange look, and then nodded. "Yeah, fine. Whatever."

He slung both bags over his shoulder and led Ling through the garage, taking a careful look out the side door, watching every shadow as if it might move. Once he was confident they were alone, he directed them across a series of backyards, looking for one outbuilding in particular. Cicadas chirped in the boughs above them, tires squealed from somewhere down the street, and he could hear enthusiastic shouts from a late-night pool party a few houses over.

Reaching a privacy fence, he swung the gate open, guiding Ling toward the garage and hoping the door was unlocked. Roy pushed his way inside and helped the younger man into the front seat of a truly impressive 1966 Dodge Charger, taking a few moments to change the plates and open the overhead door before sliding behind the steering wheel. Wishing he'd taken the time to copy the keys, he shifted the car into neutral, exposed the steering column, and isolated the collection of wires he thought led to the battery and ignition, all the while muttering under his breath, "Black...green...blue...black...green...blue..."

"Are you _hot-wiring_ this thing?" Ling drowsily and disbelievingly asked, already half-asleep in his seat, head leaning against the window at a severe angle.

"This may take a minute, I'm a little out of practice." With gloved hands he scraped away black and green insulation and wound the wires together, at which point the dashboard lights and radio powered on. Letting out a slow exhalation, he stripped the extremely _live_ starter wire and tapped it against the first pair. As the engine growled to life, he popped off the metal ignition cover, and a quick turn of the steering wheel revealed he'd broken the lock. With a grin that was equal parts self-satisfaction and relief, he drove slowly toward the road, not flipping on the headlights until he was certain the street was clear. "Haven't lost the touch."

"Did you _drug_ me?" Ling's bleary gaze following the scenery.

"The doctor did."

"You're a doctor?" There was a long, skeptical noise which sounded something like _hmmmmmm_. "Things are getting weird." After several minutes of driving along quiet streets, with Roy eyeing the mirrors in fits of justifiable paranoia, his stepson added, "Ya know, I punched one of the guys that jumped me. It was great."

He chuckled. "Go to sleep, killer. We'll talk when you have less morphine in your system." When the burner phone rang from his bag, he accepted the call and said, "What do you have for me?"

"A safe house in the city. It's that place I set up a few years ago, after your little elevator fiasco," Hughes began, the ambient noise from his end of the calling indicating he was on the move as well. "I'll meet you there."

"I may be a while," he replied, taking an unnecessary and precautionary turn. "I'm going to take the long way, make sure we're not followed."

"Alright, I'll get some basics. Can I ask what we're dealing with?"

"Ling was nabbed and my _real fucking name_ was tattooed on his arm. Brosh found us."

" _Jesus_." Maes let out a wry chuckle. "But I guess that's not surprising. There's only one guy in the world pissed enough to keep looking for you."

"Well, he obviously doesn't want me dead... _yet_...or he would've just come after me. He wanted my attention." Roy glanced at the injured college student sleeping in the passenger seat. "And he got it."

"What's the action? I know you have a plan."

He shrugged, despite the fact his friend could not see him. "I was thinking a breakfast meeting. Nice and friendly, and somewhere very public."

Hughes sighed audibly, with a familiar exasperation. "You're as big a dick as ever."

"Generally." He smirked. "Does he still like the Plaza when he's in town?"

"As far as I know, but I'll see what I can find out. You're sure he won't decide to kill you?"

He nodded. "Pretty sure."

"Okay, great." Maes laughed quietly. "And keep in mind, this bastard thinks I'm dead, so..."

"Believe it or not, Hughes, this isn't my first time."

"You've been out of the game for a while, just saying."

" _Helpful_." He glanced in the rear-view mirror, practically daring headlights to appear. "I'll go ahead and call back when I need to hear the obvious again."

"Sounds good."

Shaking his head, Roy tossed the phone toward his bag and settled in for an unnecessarily long drive downtown, shooting another look at his stepson. He'd left the so-called _game_ twelve years ago to keep Silaris and her son safe, and part of him had always known their reprieve had an expiration date. Still, he'd hoped he could keep Ling free of that world for a few more years. Availing himself of a bottle of water, he focused on the road and mentally sifted through the names of anyone else he might have wronged during his years spent as Nick Sylvaine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and have a good one :)


	12. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola :) Thank you for checking out my story, as well as for your kudos, comments, and bookmarks. The support is very much appreciated!!

**The Meeting** – May 3rd – New York City

After a few hours' sleep and an unpleasantly cold shower, Roy strolled along West 59th Street and adjusted the cuffs of his light gray, tailored suit. A morning edition of the Times was tucked beneath his arm, and he settled a pair of sunglasses on his nose as the sky continued to brighten, beams of sunlight reflecting off the many windows he passed. Around him businesses were opening their doors, vendors were taking up their positions, and the sidewalks already teemed with pedestrians.

He waded casually through the throng, and the ever-impressive facade of the Plaza Hotel soon came into view. With a brief nod at the doorman, he strode through the doors toward the Palm Court, easily spotting his mark at a table near one of the large, arched windows. He maneuvered through the many tables packed with brunch-goers and lightly dropped the paper onto the tablecloth, commandeering the only other chair. "Hey, _Den_."

"Nick," Brosh replied, peering at him with sharp, forest green eyes.

"Let's stick with Roy, if you don't mind." He picked a grape from the other man's plate, gesturing toward the silver strands interspersed through his flaxen hair. "You look old."

"Nice to see you, too." He folded his own newspaper, setting it beside the plate before sipping his coffee. "How's the kid? Ling, I believe was his name."

"Your guys gave him an orbital fracture. A little overzealous, if you ask me." He pilfered a slice of toast, nonchalantly spreading butter across it. "I'm sure there were easier ways to contact me."

"None that would've been quite as entertaining." Denny gave a tiny, unconcerned shrug. "He's my nephew, isn't he? It was time I welcomed him to the family."

"Enough bullshit." Roy took a bite and leaned back, flicking the leftover bread onto his old friend's breakfast. "I just thought I'd remind you who you're dealing with, because apparently you've forgotten. I'm still the guy that played your entire family and got away clean."

Brosh looked at him over the rim of his porcelain mug. "And yet, here we are."

He smirked. "We both know that if Silaris and Ling weren't involved, you never would've seen me again."

"My father warned you about the dangers of a conscience."

"I never could take advice." He set the cell from Ling's coat beside the sugar. "You'll get your money when I'm ready, and you'll let me do this my way." He stood and tossed his serviette on the table, buttoning his suit jacket. "If you go after him again, Den, you won't like what happens. I took a break from the game, I didn't lose my goddamn mind."

With that he strolled back through the hotel and out onto the sidewalk, rejoining the flow of foot traffic in the direction of Fifth Avenue. As soon as he reached the corner of the building, both Hughes and Ling pushed off the wall, falling into step beside him. His tone dry, Maes asked, "How'd it go?"

"About how I expected. I bought us some leeway." He eyed the many reflections in various windows and storefronts, pulling the sunglasses from his jacket. "Who does he have out here?"

"No one." Maes let out a quiet snort of displeasure. "I forgot how arrogant the little shit was."

"He deserves to be, he _has_ us. For now. He knows it's pointless to run." He slid a hand into his pocket to check his phone, and glanced at Ling. " _You're_ supposed to resting."

"This seemed like the best way to find out what the hell's going on," the younger man retorted, grimacing in discomfort as they walked. "Why'd you go to the Plaza?"

"To talk to the guy responsible for your new tattoo," he responded, crossing the street and following the sidewalk as it curved around Grand Army Plaza.

"You really _know_ him?"

"Unfortunately, we do," Hughes began. " _Dammit_. The fucker knows everything, all our old contacts..." His friend paused to side-eye him curiously. "Why aren't you more bothered by this?"

Roy shrugged. "Makes my life easier. So maybe we use a few old contacts. It's what he'll expect and, for the time being, that's fine." A genuine smile crept onto this features. "And it means we need a fresh face."

"Yeah, I agree, but..." Maes shook his head in confusion. "What am I missing?"

"You'll see." He broke away momentarily to weave around a group of ogling tourists. "Did you get that information I asked about?"

"I did. Lan Fan Mura graduated from the University of Hawaii last weekend with a degree in computer science, and there's a swanky party for her...basically all day today...on the roof of the Curtis luxury apartment building." His friend stopped to shoot him a glare and buy a hot dog from a nearby vendor. "But you already knew that, you asshole."

He smirked. "I had a hunch."

Hughes doused his unconventional breakfast in ketchup and mustard. "Important to note that the building is owned by none other than Olivier-fucking-Armstrong herself."

"What are we doing at the park?" his confused stepson asked.

"I'll explain everything soon." Roy continued into the park itself, taking the path nearest Fifth Avenue and keeping an eye on the Curtis Building through the trees. "And lucky you, kid. You're about to experience your first stake-out. Come on, it'll be fun."

"It won't, actually." Hughes scanned their surroundings warily, and lobbed the already empty foil wrapper in a trash can. "Stake-outs being the second biggest reason I left the Marshals. Where was I? Oh, right... _who_ is Lan Fan Mura, and why are we interested?"

"Because of who she knows." Roy chuckled as he searched the walkway, even pacing briefly backward to be certain he had not missed the individual he sought. "Would you both calm down? I have everything well in hand."

"And I'd like to know who you actually _are_ ," Ling retorted.

"I'm the same guy you've known for thirteen years. I just have a past." Roy continued his swift stride, spotting a young man with brown hair and a long nose near a lamp post up ahead, the handlebars of a bike in his grasp. He moved toward the messenger, and slipped a small envelope from an inside jacket pocket while saying, "Are you Jake?"

The man looked over with a nod. "You asked for a messenger to meet you here, Mr. Jones?"

"I _did_ ," he cheerfully replied, holding out the envelope between two fingers, but he yanked it back before Jake could touch it. "Take this to the Curtis Building and give it to a woman named Riza Hawkeye. Hand it to her _directly_ , not to anyone else." He finally relinquished the note, along with several hundred dollar bills. "Wait for her, however long it takes."

Jake gave another nod, securing the envelope in his bag and the money in a pocket. "Thank you, sir. I'll make sure she gets it."

"Thanks." He watched the messenger cycle toward the edifice in question, and moved to have a better view of the front entrance.

" _Okay_." Hughes leaned against a nearby tree with an irritated frown. "I'm calling Vegas."

"This is nothing like Vegas."

"What happened in Vegas?" Ling queried, eyes jumping between them.

" _Nothing_ ," Roy pointedly responded.

"It was only a job that he almost fucked up irreparably before it even began." Maes stepped toward him, expression a tad reproachful. "I'm not sure this is a good idea."

"What kind of job?" the younger man asked.

Rather than answer the question, he addressed his old partner. "We need a new face, you agreed. And we both know she's a pro."

"She _is_ , but you've been retired for twelve years. Do you really..." His friend shifted even closer and lowered his voice. "...do you really want to recruit _her_? On your return gig, no less?"

"Seriously," Ling began, his tone sharper. "What are you guys talking about?"

"Yes, and this is still nothing like Vegas." He looked over at Hughes. "She's careful, and low-profile. Meaning we have some control over what Brosh knows about her."

Maes was silent, observing him closely while the third member of the group glared at them both. "Will you at least admit that you've been waiting three years for a reason to contact her?"

"I will." Roy slid his hands in his pockets, and preempted Ling's forthcoming tirade of enraged confusion by saying, "Alright, kid. Do you want the full story or the condensed version?"

The younger man shrugged, but his glower remained fixed. "Condensed, I guess."

He cocked his head in thought, gaze returning to the Curtis Building. "Denny Brosh gave you that tattoo. He's your uncle, and he's under the impression that we owe him money."

Ling's jaw fell open. "Wait, Brosh like the criminals you hear about on the _news_?"

"Yeah, them," Maes confirmed with a chipper nod. "Twelve years ago, we helped your mother leave the family business, and borrowed a modest nest egg in the process. Denny's still a little peeved, apparently."

Roy glanced curiously down the street, and continued, "You should also know...I'm not really your stepfather, and my name used to be Nick Sylvaine. This is Hughes, he tried to be a U.S. Marshal, but decided he liked crime better."

"So you pissed this guy off, and now I have your crappy name stuck on my arm... _forever_." Ling chuckled derisively. "Fan-friggin-tastic."

"We pissed him off to save _you_ ," Hughes contributed. "Grandpa Brosh wanted to kill you and your mother. A little appreciation would be nice."

"I don't even remember my grandfather, and you're saying he tried to kill me?" The younger man shook his head. "I think I need more details."

"Silaris wanted out, and her father wasn't crazy about that idea." Maes shrugged a shoulder. "She knew too much. And as far as Brosh was concerned, once you're in, you're _in_."

"We were in D.C. running games at a few different universities, and your mom came to find me," Roy said, monitoring the traffic on Fifth Avenue as he picked up the thread. "We were old friends, and I'd never seen her so terrified. Your father was already dead, and Brosh Sr..."

"So I'm guessing my dad wasn't an _engineer_ ," Ling interrupted, suddenly more suspicious than angry. "Did you know him?"

"Yeah, his name was Fredrik," he nodded, briefly catching his eye. "He was a good guy. Crazy about your mom."

Roy straightened then, because at that moment a charcoal gray Aston Martin cruised through his field of vision, slowing to pull into the Curtis Building's curved drive. He thought he heard Ling ask about what happened next, and Hughes might have muttered something about a 'nice fucking car,' but he was thoroughly distracted by the opening driver-side door, a mild tension in his chest. His mind swam, because it _could_ be her, and in that instant he understood precisely how much he'd missed her.

A foot was visible first, the distance too great for him to have any thoughts on the shoe it wore, and when the driver appeared he smiled. Her hair was longer than he remembered, and her dress was a dusty shade of lavender that somehow set off the gold in her tresses. He could not count the number of times he'd imagined his hands tangled in that hair. "She _would_ look absolutely incredible."

She handed her keys to a uniformed valet before hugging a young brunette that practically sprinted out the building's front doors. They were walking toward the entrance together, and the messenger had just caught her attention when Roy decided to turn around and say, "So, your mom went back all apologetic, and when I returned to Miami we started a fake relationship."

"She just changed her mind?"

"Not exactly, we had to play the long con. I won't go into _all_ the details," he said with a wave of his hand, "but it was basically a masterpiece."

"Some of our best work," Hughes added, his satisfaction apparent. "In the end, we..."

As his friend continued the story, Roy could not resist an impulsive glance back toward the Curtis Building, and he found the entrance already abandoned. He wished he could walk straight into that party himself, however, patience was the name of this game, and they could not be seen together until the right moment. An unsure part of him wondered if she would even respond (it _had_ been three years), while the rest fervently hoped she would. He needed to see her again, and this time there would be no busy streets or fake marriages between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and have a good one :)


	13. The Delivery

**The Delivery** – May 4th – New York City

Roy had always found it difficult to quiet his mind during a job and, considering that he'd lain awake in bed for more than an hour, little had changed in twelve years. It was never a symptom of stress, rather the way he worked, delving into the ceaseless formulation of plays and analysis of his ever-evolving plans. It made for a few restless nights, but it also meant he was adaptable, which meant everything when a man like Denny Brosh was out for your blood. Silaris used to joke that he had a 'plan for every minute of the day,' but in truth he generally stuck with seventeen. It was his lucky number.

To his left the faintest rope of light streamed through the blinds from the streetlamp below, tinting his ceiling a soft orange, but the otherwise complete darkness hinted that a few hours yet remained until sunrise. He rolled out of bed, taking a deep breath as he did, and it was then a heavy knock reverberated around the apartment. Recalling what happened the last time he received a visitor in the middle of the night, he pulled his pistol from the bedside table and chambered a round.

Stepping over the obnoxiously creaky floor board in the center of the room, he sidled up to his doorway. The hall was empty, as was the other bedroom, and when Ling poked his head out of the living room Roy waved him back. Maes chose that moment to exit the kitchen, sharing a wary look with him, and the pair paced carefully toward the front door. He peered through the peephole, finding a young brunette he recognized as Lan Fan Mura, and signaled to his friend that their guest was friendly.

As soon as he opened the door, the woman grinned. "Special delivery for the _coworker_ and his dorky friends. Compliments of Ms. Versen."

He took the bag of take-out she handed him, brow wrinkled. "Thanks."

"No problem." She pointed at him with the phone in her hand. "I'm supposed to ask about a Dodge Charger."

"In the shop for an oil change," he replied, which they all knew meant, _wiped and left_ _at_ _the closest_ _chop shop_.

"That's depressing. Sounded like an awesome car." With a smirk she started to leave, adding, "The tab's already been paid, gents. Enjoy."

After she disappeared into the stairwell, and the door was once again locked, he led the way into the kitchen, tearing open the paper bag. He pulled out a total of five containers, only three of which were packed with food, followed by a few sets of chopsticks and several fortune cookies. While Ling tucked voraciously into a box of fried rice, he opened the two lighter parcels to reveal a set of car keys and three gleaming black phones. The devices were clearly new and lacked brand markings of any kind, which led him to believe they were a custom order. The phones lit up simultaneously, and at the top of each screen he found a different label: _the_ _S_ _tudent_ , _the Marshal_ , _the_ _L_ _awyer_.

The ex-marshal took his phone with a chuckle. " _She_ works quickly."

A trip down to the sidewalk with Hughes revealed that the keys belonged to a black sport utility vehicle and, upon closer inspection, they discovered the back was filled with luggage. Between the two of them, they managed to unload the vehicle in two trips, and he was soon dragging three bags of gear and clothing into his bedroom. He opened the garment bag first, relieved to find several of his own suits hanging neatly inside, and from his doorway Maes commented, "Nobody brought _me_ any fancy suits. Remind me, who was kind enough to bandage her bullet wound?" He shook his head, pointing at him with a toothbrush. "Cause it sure as shit wasn't you."

"Right," he said wryly, pulling a second pistol and clip from another bag. "I was too busy lying shot in a hospital bed. How thoughtless."

"You _are_ an inconsiderate bastard." When the new phone buzzed from the bedside table, Hughes chuckled. "Tell her I say hello."

Roy picked up the device, unable to ignore the tension winding through him as he contemplated the phrase 'blocked number' emblazoned on the screen. He took a breath and said, by way of greeting, "Do you respond to every mysterious note you find?"

"Only when they're from overconfident lawyers with god complexes," came the reply, and his mind flashed to the distant image of her in that lavender dress. Then he was back in that elevator three years ago, standing a foot away and trying with all the willpower he possessed not to take her hand. All at once he wanted to explain the fake marriage, to tell her everything he'd had to keep to himself, and it suddenly felt urgent, like there was not enough time for it all.

"Still with the insults." He lowered his voice at a sound from the other bedroom, flopping back onto the bed. "And I thought you'd be _happy_ to..."

"I am," Riza cut in softly, and he raked a hand through his hair, grin widening. After a quiet exhalation, she continued, "I heard about Silaris. I'm so sorry."

"Thank you," he said with a slow nod, studying the ridges on the ceiling and wondering how he'd gone three years without hearing her voice. "I saw the flowers you sent, Ms. _Versen_."

"I figured you'd like that." She paused, and fabric rustled on her end of the call. "Your house was tossed. Can I ask what they were looking for?"

"Forty million dollars."

Hawkeye laughed, and somewhere in her apartment a kettle whistled. "Is _any_ left? Or did you blow it all on silk ties?"

He smirked. "Mostly on the ties, a couple cars, but there's a good portion locked away in an account for Ling."

"You're a responsible grifter. I like that."

He reached toward the table for his coffee mug, voice softening. "You looked phenomenal yesterday."

"Thank you." She vacillated, and her tone changed to some combination of surprise and curiosity. "You kept tabs on me."

"Only enough to know you were in the city." Roy's shrug was lopsided. "You didn't change your name. That was basically an invitation."

"Lex didn't appreciate being stalked."

"It was nothing personal. She was easier to track, and I couldn't contact you _directly_. That'd be ridiculous."

"And it was the strangest thing," she began, the warmth of a smile in her voice. "But when I left the party last night, another of your little messenger friends was waiting with a package of Versen darjeeling."

"I just happened to order some yesterday. I had a craving." He shook his head, taking a sip of coffee. "They must've taken it to the wrong address. Damn them."

"Is this the Roy Mustang charm I've been missing all these years? Because if so, I'm _under_ whelmed."

" _And_ you're a liar."

"You caught me." When she continued, it was to change the subject once more. "Going to tell me what happened?"

He slid the mug back atop the beside table. "Silaris and I were never married." She was completely silent, and he spoke before she could respond. "I was in hiding for twelve years, Riza. And believe me, I never wanted to tell anyone more."

There was a pause, and he could almost see her giving her tea a pensive turn clockwise, the way she used to when they worked late. "You _were_ hiding."

"That arrangement was recently blown to hell. Speaking of...what's your connection to Denny Brosh?"

"Professional." As if to match her words, her tone turned clinical. "I did some freelance work for him three years ago."

"The Armstrongs?" His eyes returned to following the whorls of paint on the ceiling, and he recalled catching those news reports in the hospital three years ago. The most powerful crime family in the world, wiped out in a matter of days, and the authorities only able to speculate. He'd always suspected Hawkeye had escaped a darker life than even himself, and the bullet she'd put in Alex Armstrong's head proved it.

Her hesitation was momentary. "Yes. I've handled a few acquisitions for him since then, but that's it. And to answer your _real_ question...No, it's not a bridge I'd mind burning."

He pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, eyeing the garment bag in his tiny closet. "This whole honesty thing...

"...is going to take some getting used to," Riza finished in amusement. "Lex said we need to get you a new safe house."

"That'd be fantastic, because this place smells like mothballs and _despair_."

Her laugh once again made a grin tug at his mouth. "I'll see what I can do."

Roy looked up at a quiet knock and, when Ling appeared in the doorway, he added, "Mind if I call you back?"

"Not at all."

"What's goin on?" he asked, standing and tossing the cell onto his bed.

"They packed my clothes. It's a little creepy." His visitor held up another of the recently delivered phones, expression sardonic. "And am I supposed to be able to use this? Because I can't unlock it."

His smile amused, he fit the pistol into the holster at his back and ushered the younger man into the hallway. "I can probably figure out the code. Let me think about it for a minute."

"I wanted to ask," Ling began, leading the way into the kitchen, from which the aromas of coffee and bacon wafted. "What should I do about my finals? I had one more paper to turn in this week."

"Is it done?" He grabbed a strip of bacon from a plate beside the stove, and glanced around to find Hughes seated at the counter.

"Yeah, it's on my jump drive."

Roy nodded. "We'll come up with a story to explain your absence, and find somewhere for you to email your professor so it can't be traced here."

"It's due tomorrow."

"Then we'll work fast." He refilled his own mug and poured another, taking a stool at the counter and sliding the creamer toward another vacant seat for Ling. With the younger man's phone before him, he contemplated the digital keypad and again stretched a hand toward the bacon. Looking over at Hughes, he asked, "What was your password?"

"My ex-wife's name," the man responded with a snort. "Your friend did her research."

"How _is_ Lily?" He did not bother to hide his smirk.

"Fine, last I checked." He shrugged, moving to deposit his plate in the sink and gulp down orange juice. "Married in California, no kids, insanely happy she divorced me."

"I think we're all happy she divorced you."

"We were _awful_ together," Maes chuckled. "That'll teach me to get married in Vegas."

"Right. Remind me how that job was my fault?"

"You'll figure it out eventually." Hughes raised his cup at them on his way out of the room. "I have a few things to tie up from my cover, and I'll find a secure laptop the kid can use."

"Thanks." His reply was distracted, and then he finally typed in a code, pushing the device across the counter when it unlocked. "It's Garradd, the comet Silaris and I took you to see on your fourteenth birthday."

"I remember that. You were still in law school, and you talked _somebody_ into letting us out onto the roof of the astronomy building." Ling fell silent and stirred more creamer into his mug, the spoon clinking gently against porcelain. "That woman yesterday, Riza Hawkeye...I saw you together once."

That called Roy's attention, but the younger man simply stared into his coffee. "That so?"

He nodded, still absentmindedly stirring the beverage. "I came into town for a long weekend. We were meeting for lunch, and I got to the law firm early. You were standing right outside your office." He paused, this time shaking his head as he puzzled through his words. "I'm not sure what it was. You were just talking, and she handed you a file, but it was different somehow. Not like how you were with Mom."

"Ling, listen..."

"No, seriously, I owe you an apology. I've been an asshole to you for years." His stepson finally looked up from his mug. "Mom was sick, and I thought you were _cheating_ on her, and..." He fell quiet again, setting the spoon aside. "I can understand why you didn't tell me everything, but it really would've cleared some shit up."

"Full disclosure from now on." Roy pushed away his coffee and took a pensive breath. "For what it's worth, nothing _happened_ with Hawkeye while your mom was alive. Not the way you thought. I'd never put you and Silaris at risk like that."

Ling held up his hands and leaned back, as if to physically escape the conversation. "It's really none of my business."

"You were angry, and I know that doesn't just vanish. Explanations aren't out of the question." He moved to the fridge and checked the cartons of take-out until he found some dumplings that looked appetizing. "You've gotten a shit-ton of information over the last few days. I don't expect you to process everything overnight."

"Here's one thing I don't get," Ling began, reaching over to impale a dumpling with a fork. "It sounds like you basically gave up your life for us twelve years ago. Who does that?"

"I'm no saint, kid. I pissed off a lot of people. Disappearing wasn't exactly the worst thing for me, or Hughes." He tilted his head, adding on second thought, "There's a very good chance we'd be dead otherwise."

"Still, _why_? You gave up what you called 'extremely lucrative projects' in D.C."

"Silaris was a good friend." Roy shrugged, finally taking a sip of his lukewarm coffee. "And I'm not one to let an innocent kid get dragged into this bullshit. For all the good it did. You got dragged into it anyway."

"You tried," the younger man replied with smirk.

"Thanks," he chuckled, adding as he pointed at the phone, "That's only to be used with us, by the way. No contacting your friends, or anyone else from your normal life. I don't know how Brosh found us, but we're not gonna help him track us here."

Ling nodded and once more leaned back in his seat, his expression changing from one of comprehension to curiosity as he did. "What happens now?"

Roy could not help the smile that formed. "Now, we get the bastard that inked your arm and cracked your damn eye socket."

His stepson grinned, stealing another dumpling from the carton with an enthusiastic, "Hell yes."

They stayed in the kitchen a while longer, snacking on take-out and chatting until Ling's pain medication began to wear off. While he stretched out on the couch, Roy returned to his room and rescued the phone from the bedspread. Lowering himself onto the edge of the mattress, he eyed his own lock screen which, in light of her incoming call earlier, he had yet to encounter. After hovering his thumb over the digits for half a minute, he typed in D38904, and his mouth curved once more when the device unlocked. It was the file number for the Curtis divorce, the first case they'd worked.


	14. The Broker

**The Broker** – May 7th – The Ceres Gallery, New York City

At approximately seven in the evening, Roy sat in the back of a limousine beside Denny Brosh, casually sipping a glass of twenty-five-year old scotch and thinking he'd rather be almost anywhere else. Their chat at the Palm Court had bought him _some_ freedom, however it seemed the man could not be deterred, and he'd recently appointed himself supervisor of the entire operation. As planned, Brosh had intervened in their choice of broker, and it was clear he intended to exert his influence as often as possible if it meant retrieving the millions he felt owed. The fact that Roy had allowed for that eventuality made it no less irksome.

Buildings scuttled past the windows at a snail's pace, not unusual for bustling city streets, and he assumed the next four blocks might feel like two years. He tilted the glass merely to watch the amber liquid within, and when he spoke he let the slightest hint of irritation color his tone. "This is unnecessary. My New York contacts are reliable, Den. I never had a problem."

The other man smirked. "The woman you're about to meet is better than any of your friends from twelve years ago."

"You trust her?"

"Would _you_ trust an ex-hitter?" Brosh finished his drink quickly, as only a man without a true appreciation of scotch would. "No...but she's discreet, has solid contacts, and she's connected to the Armstrong woman. That family's presence here is stronger than mine, and you'll need to be in her good graces if you want to pull this off."

"I think you've gotten more intelligent since I left." He raised his glass in a mock toast. "Congratulations, Den, you grew into job."

"You're one smug bastard and, frankly, I don't get it." His expression held a carefully reined anger. "You sent my father to prison, skipped town with my sister and nephew, and engineered the disappearance of millions of dollars. You're lucky I haven't shot you."

Roy shook his head. "No, _you're_ lucky I'm here. You need money, and I'm the fastest way to get it. We both know it's the only reason I'm still alive." He sipped, a satisfied quirk to his mouth. "I just haven't figured out what kind of bind you're in, but I will."

His chuckle was cold, unnatural. "Always so fucking clever."

"I try." The limousine slowed in front of a late 1930s building with a white brick facade, the windows revealing a bright interior also painted white. Black lettering above the entrance read _The Ceres Gallery_ , and when they stepped out of the vehicle he could see a foot-high riser through the double doors. Inside rows of chairs had been arranged before it, and on the walls hung paintings and professional photographs of varied size, each piece stunning. The majority of the seats had already been filled, and when they took two in the last row he asked, "Who is this woman?"

Voice low, Brosh replied, "Riza Hawkeye owns the gallery, and she's the foremost broker on the east coast. Her business consists mainly of acquisitions, anything from artwork and collectibles to more _practical_ pieces."

Roy understood that, in this instance, practical actually meant _tactical_. "The gallery is acceptable, at least." He paused, flipping through the program he'd received at the door and realizing he would be attending the exhibition of a string quartet. "Let's not forget, I have the final say. I need to be able to work with the woman."

"I doubt you'll have a problem." The other man's tone implied that Hawkeye had other attributes of which he'd likely approve.

He felt the sudden urge to deck him, at which point he noticed the initial performance would be Bach's First Suite for cello, and he fought to keep his mien neutral for an entirely different reason. Waving the program to draw Denny's attention, he asked, "Care to explain this little soiree?"

"The gallery hosts an exclusive concert each year to raise money for Miss Hawkeye's philanthropic endeavors." He shrugged, as if he thought the entire affair to be little more than bullshit. "Expensive tickets, fancy champagne, and a few select pieces are auctioned at the end."

Roy nodded his comprehension, hiding the way his hand gripped the program as he watched Hawkeye herself appear from a corridor. Her hair was twisted into an off-center chignon, and her plum cocktail dress revealed the scar near her left shoulder, where the bullet had cut through muscle. Almost with pride was it displayed and, while his mouth fought to smile, he kept his expression one of mild interest.

As the blonde moved to stand beside Lan Fan, a young redheaded woman stood before the gathering, glancing at her employer for the signal to begin. "We at The Ceres Gallery would like to thank everyone for coming this evening. This is our third annual concert, and in just three years we've raised millions to help the city's at-risk youth." This announcement was followed by applause and, when it died down, she continued, "As usual, we don't wish to monopolize time better spent enjoying the performance. Therefore, it is my great honor to introduce the Autié String Quartet."

The musicians materialized from the hallway, and another polite round of applause began to welcome them. The din gradually tapered when the performers took their seats, and as the first notes filled the room he was taken back to that concert in Chicago. Though he knew she would not be able to reciprocate, he hazarded a quick glance in her direction, unable to help himself. Her features had softened, and he remembered it was during their late dinner that same evening that he'd first heard her truly laugh. He shook himself free of old memories, because he was still seated beside the somewhat murderous Denny Brosh, and his situation remained undeniably tenuous.

The concert itself lasted just shy of two hours, and the auction that followed progressed quickly, the bids made in rapid succession. Once the donated pieces had been purchased the guests milled about, perusing the artwork and enjoying the drinks that flowed freely. He and Brosh followed suit, exchanging more quiet insults, until at one point the other man pulled the redhead aside and asked to speak with the gallery's owner. While they continued to patiently circle the room, Roy found himself consistently aware of Hawkeye's movements, effortlessly picking her voice out of the conversations around him.

She finally joined them before the photo of a stone staircase, a shadowy passage hidden in one of the few truly medieval cities still standing. An archway opened to the right, perhaps leading to an invisible courtyard, and from the wall on the left a tree grew, curving gracefully and obstinately toward the sky. Hawkeye admired the image for several moments, her expression pleasant, but a hard glint appeared in her eyes when she looked at Denny. Still, she kept her tone light when she said, "I believe your order's in my office, Mr. Brosh. If you'd follow me."

Riza led them toward the hall from which she'd materialized earlier, pausing only to speak with her assistant. They stepped through the last door on the left, entering a well-lit space with a line of windows running behind the desk that he assumed were made from bullet-resistant glass. The walls here were also white, brightening the room further, and one was adorned with the painting of an orchid, done in shades of lavender and aubergine. She waved at a couple chairs in invitation as she took her place at the desk, and her demeanor turned significantly colder when she spoke. "Evidently I wasn't clear before, Mr. Brosh. I'm not interested."

"Yes, Miss Hawkeye. You're retired, I understand." Denny smirked. "I'm here on another matter."

She glanced at Roy, with not even a sliver of recognition. "Who's your friend?"

"His name's Nick, or Roy, take your pick. And we have a proposition for you." He produced his phone, unconcernedly sending a text while he spoke. "I plan to conduct business in this city. One weekend...high risk, high reward. We'll need a few things, and we'd like your help."

Riza's gaze shifted between them once. "What kind of business?"

"Are you familiar with the work of Nick Sylvaine?" Roy asked.

"One of the better grifters in recent memory." She tilted her head at Denny to add, "Sent _your_ father to prison, if I remember correctly."

"Nick's an ass that way."

"You didn't even _like_ your dad, and he had it coming."

"Sylvaine comes back for one weekend? I'm intrigued." Her lips started to curve, the emotion somewhere between amusement and shock as she came to a realization. "You want to run a three day Mallorca...in _New York City_."

Sharing a nonchalant look with Denny, he shrugged. "Is that a problem?"

"For some." Hawkeye leaned back. "My commission is twenty percent."

"Done," Roy replied with a nod. "I'm aware of your relationship with Ms. Armstrong, and we're prepared to offer her a cut as well."

"I take it you're satisfied." There was mirth in Brosh's voice, and he abruptly stood, making for the door. "I have business across town, so I'll leave you to get acquainted. Miss Hawkeye, it's been a pleasure." Halfway out the door, he added, "Nick...as always, fuck off."

Chuckling quietly, Riza crossed the room to watch the mobster's progress down the hall. "He _really_ doesn't like you."

"It's nice that my predicament amuses you." He moved to stand behind her, gaze following hers down the corridor before falling to the exit wound near her shoulder. They were so close he could smell the mild bergamot notes of her perfume, and she subtly stiffened when he brushed a thumb over the scar. "You look gorgeous tonight."

She paced in the direction of the painting, her eyes again softening in a way that he loved. "Someone once suggested plum might be a nice color for me."

"I'm usually right." He followed her, hands in his pockets. "You'll get used to that."

"We'll see." Riza glanced at the painting before turning to face him, and he tensed when she hesitantly slipped her hand beneath his suit jacket. She skated her fingers over the scar tissue below his clavicle, feeling the ridges through the fabric of his shirt, and quietly said, "I'm sorry for putting you in danger."

"You don't have anything to apologize for." Roy traced his fingertips down her forearm, enjoying the way her lips curved even as she pulled away.

Finding his gaze, she asked, "What should I call you?"

"Brosh likes to call me Nick, trying to get a rise out of me..." He took her free hand, and gave a muted shake of the head. "...but I'm not that guy anymore."

Her thumb grazed the place where his wedding band used to reside. "Roy it is, then."

"And you?" he asked, tracing his finger along the heel of her hand. "I'd like to know your real name, if you're willing to share."

She nodded thoughtfully. "My _birth_ name was Julia Blake, but I haven't been her for a long time."

"Riza it is, then."

When she caught his eye, it was with a little curve of the mouth. "We should get back to the party."

"Probably," he reluctantly agreed, relinquishing her hand in order to hold the door for her. "You know, there were a few pieces I might be interested in." They shared a discreet smile on their way down the corridor, and he added, "Maybe you could tell me about them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapters, and have a great day! :)


	15. Due Diligence

**Due Diligence** – May 9th – New York City

Shortly after noon two days later, Roy found himself sharing a coffee with Hawkeye near the Pulitzer Fountain, where they loitered whilst observing the Plaza Hotel's main entrance. The day was slightly gloomy, the heavy clouds above at a continuous crawl, and the darkening sky hinted at the rain to come. The air was fittingly humid, but the breeze coasting down the street carried with it an incongruous chill, no doubt ushering in the forthcoming storm.

He caught Riza's eye and his lips curved, the hacker named Havoc rattling off another complaint via his earpiece: "Umm...Hawkeye, my love...this is a terrible safe house, and Mr. O.C.D. rearranged all my shit. It's officially a hostile work environment."

"That table was _chaos_ ," Maes replied from his position across the street, leaning against the park wall and pretending to read a newspaper. "How do you even work?"

"Effortlessly, until I met you."

"I promise I'll take this comm offline if you two don't stop." Hawkeye pushed hair from her eyes, her voice containing an exasperated amusement that Roy recognized from late work nights. "This completely unnecessary comm, might I add."

"Not unnecessary. _Y_ _ou're_ just a loner who's not used to having friends," came Havoc's cheerful rejoinder.

"I have friends," she began with a smirk, running her hand along the lapel of his jacket. "Smith, Wesson, and Glock, to name a few."

"She's got _jokes_ ," Lan Fan gleefully chimed in from the Cayman Islands, where she and the inexperienced Ling had been sent to perform some routine investigative work. "We're headed to the bank, by the way, and we're all alone. If Denny has guys here, they're not following us."

Roy sipped the coffee, and shifted to keep himself between the blonde and the building they watched. "Remember what we went over, Ling."

"A whole lot of confusing crap, that's what," the younger man replied, nerves apparent in his tone. "And, just curious, but will you ever share this mysterious _plan_?"

"Probably not," Hughes interjected with a chuckle. "You get used to it."

He leaned toward Hawkeye like they were deep in conversation, fiddling with the sunglasses perched in her hair. "You'll be fine. Follow Lex's lead."

"I'm actually talking to _Nick Sylvaine_..." What followed sounded much like a squeal of delight, and then Lan Fan must have elbowed her partner because because he grunted in pain. "...about a _job_. Seriously, Riz."

Hawkeye shot him a smile. "I heard, Lex."

"You keep saying that like it's a big deal," Ling said, his irritation plain.

"The guy's a frickin' legend." The woman snickered through the earpiece, adding, "I wouldn't go walking around with his name on my arm, though. Bad times."

"It wasn't a style choice, it was a message," came his stepson's retort. "Spoiler alert, it wasn't good."

"Would you quit with the chit-chat and get a move on?" Havoc interrupted. "Your appointment's in two minutes. _Be. Punctual_."

Still chuckling, Lan Fan said, "On site. And we're going offline for this, cause you're annoying."

"I've got eyes," Hughes abruptly told them. "Target's in a cab, number 417, heading east."

While the blonde watched the vehicle out of the corner of her eye, Roy passed back the to-go cup and quietly said, "That's my cue."

Riza's only confirmation was to meet his gaze and, when he leaned forward to kiss her cheek, she handed him a hotel key card. Her hair held traces of lilac and she gently squeezed his hand, pulling away with a quirk to her mouth. His expression matched hers as he strode across the street, concealing the card in a pocket and briefly checking for the forged F.B.I. badge in his jacket. It was merely a precautionary measure, in case they encountered an especially nosy guest or employee.

He swiftly crossed the lobby's polished marble floor and joined Hughes in the only open elevator, pushing the button for the ninth level. The doors slid shut and his friend let out a snort, saying, "You look ridiculous. Next time we black-badge, it'd be great if you looked the part."

His chuckle was incredulous. "What the hell's your problem?"

Maes shrugged, leaning a shoulder against the wall, his arms crossed. "Just haven't met many FBI agents that wear six-thousand-dollar suits, that's all."

"Well, I was _supposed_ to be having lunch with a beautiful woman," Roy began, words accompanied by a soft ding as the elevator rose another floor, "not searching some asshole's hotel room with you."

"Aww, Hawkeye. I think he was talking about _you_ ," Havoc supplied via the earpiece. "Has he...um...never actually seen you? Because beautiful isn't the word I'd choose."

"You must want to die tragically." Her response made him smirk, and not a moment later she added, "Nothing out here, but Brosh may have been tailed. I'm sending you the plate."

"Roger that." There was a pause, faint rock music audible from where the hacker was working, and then, "And I was going to say you're drop-dead gorgeous... _obviously_."

"Obviously."

Several seconds later the elevator came to a slow stop, and Roy stepped into the corridor, his footfalls muffled by gaudy carpet. All was quiet, and he promptly started toward room 926, skirting around a room service tray left in the hall. The air was filled with a combination of scents, everything from that ubiquitous _hotel_ aroma, to fading hints of bacon and the colognes of guests. They passed one open door with a housekeeping cart parked beside it, but otherwise encountered no signs of activity.

Approaching the door in question, he checked either end of the hallway before drawing the pistol in his shoulder holster. He then produced the key card Hawkeye had provided, shared a look with Maes, and pushed open the door. His partner entered first, and it took mere seconds to clear the room, at which point Roy threw a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the handle and returned the weapon to its holster.

The room itself was smaller than he'd anticipated, with a mosaic-walled bathroom, a single bedroom, and a terrace overlooking a courtyard. Gilt frames hung on cream walls, gold-colored drapes framed the French doors, and some fixtures appeared to be plated with actual 24-karat gold. Despite the luxury his brow rose and, returning to search the bathroom, he commented, "The Denny I knew always sprung for a suite."

"Something's off," Hughes said by way of agreement, already rifling through the closet.

Roy peered into the man's toiletries without disturbing them, and then hefted the wastebasket onto the counter. Using Brosh's own tweezers, he sifted through the contents, brow wrinkling when he found an unidentifiable fragment with burnt edges near the bottom. He kept digging and pulled out several pieces of what he decided was likely a photograph, finding that the base of the container was covered in soot. If it was a picture, it had without doubt been burned in that very trash can, and crumpled tissues had been tossed in to haphazardly conceal it. "I may have something."

"Good, because there's nothing useful out here so far," Maes said, his voice growing louder as he came closer.

"He's no idiot." Roy spread the minuscule pieces of photograph on the counter like puzzle pieces, sliding them around in his attempts to create some semblance of the image destroyed.

"Yeah, I _hate_ that." Hughes gave him a wry look and bent to examine an all-white fragment near the sink. "I'm guessing this was a Polaroid."

"I might see an eye..." His reply was distracted as he lined-up a couple pieces, but in the end he shook his head. "...but it's too damaged to know anything for sure. Not even worth scanning."

"And where's the entourage?" the other man abruptly queried, waving a hand toward the hotel room at large. "I've never seen Brosh travel without bodyguards. He's too self-important."

His mind still processing the burnt scraps, Roy asked, "What would _you_ use an instant photo for?"

"Anything I don't want a photo-tech to see." His friend shrugged a shoulder. "To prove that merchandise is in stock..."

"Proof of life," he contributed, swiping the fragments back into the wastebasket, covering them with the tissues, and cleaning streaks of soot from the counter. "We used them to make ID's back in the day. He could've burnt the excess."

"...to demonstrate that payment is liquid..." Maes continued, his gaze pensively surveying the mosaic wall. "...or process a crime scene..."

"Or provide proof of services rendered," Riza quietly interjected. "In certain lines of work."

"Fair points all." His mind returned to that hint of an eye he'd seen, trying to decide if it was bright or clouded, alive or dead.

They spent several minutes checking the places Brosh might hide items of a confidential or illicit nature, starting with the furniture before moving to the lamps and baseboards. Frustrated and empty-handed they eventually left, exiting through the main doors and joining Hawkeye at the position Hughes had abandoned only ten minutes prior. As they strolled along the sidewalk, following the wall surrounding Central Park, Roy discreetly took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. And he did not miss the smile she bit back when he did.

They side-stepped a few pedestrians, and his gaze was briefly caught by the river of vehicles snaking along the roadway. In reflections he noticed the guy in the green polo across the street, the woman twenty feet behind them wearing a skirt suit, and it took his practiced eye only an instant to decide they posed no threat. Otherwise, their walk was peaceful for nearly a full block, and he was able to simply enjoy the pressure of her hand on his arm. Despite Brosh's threat looming overhead, the moment felt strangely liberating, a far cry from the year they'd been unable to speak plainly and the following three he'd spent with the painful awareness that she was in the same city.

That tranquility was soon broken by Maes, however, who shook his head and irritably rapped the rolled newspaper against his leg. "What is this guy hiding? And when did Denny learn to hide _anything_?"

"He never could lie," Roy chuckled, his tone turning serious when he added, "We might've underestimated Den."

Riza's grip momentarily tightened on his arm, and she mused, "You know, I haven't been tailed _once_ since Brosh introduced us."

He smiled. "You sound almost offended."

"A little surveillance _would_ denote a certain amount of professional respect," she replied, shifting closer to avoid a fellow pedestrian, "but that's not why I mention it. Anyone in their right mind would watch us, especially with this much money on the line."

"I spoke to some old Miami contacts still in the game," Hughes began. "Apparently Brosh has been out of the limelight for two years. The organization's mainly run by a couple guys I've never heard of, and business isn't great."

He set his free hand over Riza's to call her attention, and asked, "Those acquisitions you've handled for him...anything interesting?"

She shook her head. "Nothing out of the ordinary, and I had no idea Brosh gave up the family business."

"Not to add to the confusion," the hacker abruptly said, "but thanks to Lex and the Wonderkid...and my _considerable_ talent...I'm into the target's accounts. And Denny Brosh is fucking _broke_. As in completely."

"That explains the limited staff, at least," Maes said, head cocked to the side.

"We knew he needed money," Roy began thoughtfully, "but I find it difficult to believe he's lost everything."

"Look, I know what I'm talking about, hot shot," Havoc retorted, pausing the illegal maneuverings in progress to continue, "I may not be Nick Sylvaine, or whatever, but I'm the shit. Seriously, am I getting paid to deal with these people? Cause I'm gonna need an extra long trip to an undisclosed location to recover from this bullshit."

"He's not doubting your _skills_ , oh great one," Riza chuckled, one hand reaching up to adjust the amethyst pendant around her neck. "He's thinking out loud. And really, when have I ever not paid you?"

"Allow me to offer Exhibit A...that time in Sydney..."

For an instant her fingers clenched his arm, this time unintentionally, and she interrupted, "You told me, and I quote…'consider it a present for my favorite trigger lady ever.'"

"God _dam_ mit, I'm such a nice guy." There was a brief silence, the trio on the sidewalk sharing a look, and then Havoc exhaled loudly. "Okay, back to work, children. Our mobster-of-the-year was the opposite of careful. We've got a large network of accounts connected via transfers, some with links to the Brosh organization itself, and the accounts I have so far are totally tapped."

"Was this recent?" Roy asked, leading them down a random cross street and performing another sweep for potential tails.

"The last withdrawal I can see was two months ago...ten million...but until around a year ago, there were _regular_ withdrawals." There was another pause, and then: "Every two weeks, and that lasted for three solid years."

Hawkeye's brow drew downward. "Amounts?"

"A few million, every time. Looks like the money went through a ton of shells, so it'll take a little while to find where it landed."

Roy gave a contemplative shake of the head, letting out a breath and wondering what the hell Brosh was involved in. "Nothing changes until we know more. Havoc, keep us informed. I'll be on my cell."

" _Nobody_ likes the comms," the hacker replied. "I see how it is. Why do I even..."

With a chuckle, he ended the man's tirade by tucking the earpiece into a pocket, and Hughes merely tapped him on the arm with the newspaper by way of farewell. While his friend walked away, he watched the blonde with a smile, and said, "Since lunch was ruined, let me take you to dinner tonight."

"I'm all for sticking to the plan." Riza glanced down the street, her mouth curving as she slid her own comm into her clutch. "Walk me to work?" His response was to offer his arm once again, and they strolled toward The Ceres Gallery, traveling the five blocks as leisurely as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and have a good one :)


	16. The Market

**The Market** – May 10th – New York City

It was on a warm afternoon that Roy strode along 74th Street, a paper-wrapped bundle in one hand while he meandered the last few blocks toward The Ceres Gallery. The sun beamed above, making the air a touch heavier than was comfortable, but every so often the light breeze would provide a short-lived reprieve from the heat. He checked his watch, mouth quirking when he spotted the gallery ahead, and he turned down a side street to access the delivery entrance.

Walking through the bay door led him into a warehouse-like space, with massive shelves filled with wooden crates, their exteriors stamped with locations ranging from Cairo to Sydney and everywhere in between. From an aisle to his right he heard the warning tone of a forklift, one employee lugged an old wooden box in the direction of the offices, and cargo was currently being off-loaded from a truck. In the center of it all stood Hawkeye, regarding a massive painting that could have covered an entire wall, and he did not need to see her face to read her skepticism. The piece had a flashy, gold frame that tried to exude a baroque aesthetic, and it appeared the artist had attempted an impressionistic rendering of lackadaisically rolling foot hills. And with little success, in his opinion, considering that the technique was unremarkable and the color palette not remotely to his taste.

As he approached, he could hear Riza speaking into a cellphone, her expression unamused. "... _perfect_ for the foyer of your villa. It's a statement piece...actually came for another client...but, honestly, you're the only person that would appreciate it." A little smile crept onto her face as he came to a stop beside her, and she caught his eye briefly. "I'm afraid I can't. You'll have to drink a glass in my honor." A feigned laugh escaped her. "You're such a _flatterer_. My assistant will be in touch."

"I already called and made sure they've shipped the correct order," the redhead to her left said the moment the call ended. "And I negotiated a partial refund. This won't happen again, Miss Hawkeye."

"Thank you," she replied, handing the cellphone to the other woman. "Tell Liv it's on the way, and forward the details for _this_ on to Gene. Wait twenty minutes, let him anticipate it."

"Yes, Miss Hawkeye."

"I'll be out for a little while, Bridgette. Make sure the book's delivered before three today, and please excuse us. I need to speak with Mr. Mustang privately."

"Of course," the redhead replied with a brusque nod, furiously making notes as she walked away.

Roy waited until the assistant disappeared before quietly saying, "Are you always ravishing, Miss Hawkeye?"

She smirked again, and shook her head. "I'm afraid my tolerance is _one_ shameless flatterer per day."

"That's a _shame_." She snorted at the terrible joke, and he stepped closer to add, "Don't tell me Raven's one of your clients."

"You know I can't disclose that information. I'm the soul of discretion, Mr. Mustang."

"I'd expect nothing less." He inspected the painting once more, and a wry chuckle left him. "If you tell them they love it, they will."

"You provide the suggestion, and let the mark do the rest." She shrugged a shoulder, leading the way toward her office. "Of course, subtlety is lost on Gene. With him you have to be fairly direct."

"And I'm sure that call made him feel important. That need has always been his weakness." When she side-eyed him, he added with a smirk, "But I'm only guessing. I have no idea who _Gene_ is."

"Of course." Riza's gaze fell to the package in his hand as she pushed open the exit from the warehouse. "I thought we were going _out_ for lunch."

He nodded, holding out the parcel. "We are. This is for you."

Her brow furrowed and she accepted it, strolling distractedly into her own office when he opened the door. She removed the lid, and her eyes softened as she lifted the petite photo frame from within, a slightly faded concert ticket for a box at the Chicago Symphony Center beneath the glass. Lips curving, she said, "You kept them."

He gave another nod, hands returning to his pockets at the sudden onset of self-consciousness. "I thought about giving you one, _before_ the whole elevator debacle, but I worried it'd be...inappropriate. Given the circumstances, I didn't want to assume that it meant anything to you, or that..." He trailed off, feeling like he'd already said too much. "...or that you felt the same way."

She remained silent, gaze only leaving the ticket to look up at him for a few seconds, the smile still playing at the corners of her mouth. Then Riza reached for the black clutch perched on a table behind her desk, unzipped an outer pocket, and pulled out what looked like a bracelet. Rounding the desk, she placed it in his palm and softly said, "In case it wasn't already clear...assume away, Roy Mustang."

It was his turn to watch her in mild confusion, and he sifted through the delicate chain pooled in his hand to isolate the lone adornment. He smiled upon recognizing the slim, stainless steel bar with obsidian inlay, because once upon a time it had been his tie clip. "I can't believe you still have this."

She idly wrapped the chain around her finger, running her thumb across the dark stone. "Since that party at the Chatwal, for one of Christiana's favorite clients."

"I remember." His head tilted in thought. "You _stole_ it."

"You _gave_ it to me. My hair kept falling out, and you offered the clip as a solution." She chuckled, her grin widening. "It didn't work very well."

"Definitely not," he said, with a shake of the head. "You know, that was my favorite tie bar."

Riza smirked at him and continued, "After the elevator debacle, I had a jeweler friend take it apart and turn it into this." She caught his eye, slowly lowering the bracelet back onto his hand. "So like I said...assume away."

"I'll do that," he replied, voice quiet as he looped the chain around her wrist, gaze straying to her mouth. She took his left hand and subtly shifted toward him, a slight rouge rising from her collarbones when he ran his fingers up her neck. They'd drifted close enough for him to just graze her bottom lip, her breath skating over his jaw, and then they heard steps in the hall and the pair froze. With a clipped sigh he ran his thumb across her cheek, and when a door to one of the nearby offices opened they simultaneously stepped back. He forced himself to breathe slowly, to calm his speeding pulse, not yet able to look away from her flushed skin. "I believe it's time for our lunch date."

Needlessly adjusting her blouse, she grabbed her clutch and took his arm. "Surely you meant working lunch."

"Not even a little," he replied, taking another deep breath and catching a maddening hint of her perfume on their way out the door.

They were on the sidewalk in less than a minute, both instinctively checking for tails as they strolled unhurriedly north. The usual sounds of traffic accompanied them, and the day had somehow grown noticeably warmer during his time at the gallery, the earlier breeze entirely absent. As it turned out, they only had sufficient time for a walking lunch, sharing a heavily-salted pretzel as she led him to a building mere blocks away. It boasted elements of a few architectural styles, with an elaborate cornice running along the roof and a pair of oriels protruding from the topmost floors. A carved, Romanesque archway framed the glass entrance, reached by a stone staircase, and the windows were crowned with simpler arches.

Her hand once more finding the crook of his arm, Riza led him past the front entrance and down a few steps to a metal door tucked beneath the main landing. Rather than knock, she tilted her head toward him and said, "Wait for it."

After only seconds the door swung inward, revealing a softly-lit entryway with three hallways disappearing to parts unknown. The floors were sealed concrete, stained gunmetal gray, and in the center of the room a sitting area had been arranged, with two small sofas and a couple chairs surrounding a coffee table. In one corner stood a wet bar, immediately below a single frosted window, and there was not a camera in sight. They were greeted by a tall, gray-haired man with a polite smile, and he stepped aside to let them pass while saying, "Miss Hawkeye, lovely to see you again."

"And the same to you." Patting his arm with the clutch, she added, "Mr. Mustang, I'm sure you remember Vato Falman."

"Of course." Roy nodded, shaking the man's hand. "A friend of Breda's, we met the night Maria Ross made partner."

"I've moved away from law, as you can see," Falman said with a smirk, leading them down the corridor to the left. "And I've taken the liberty of readying a few options for you, based on what we discussed."

"Thank you," the blonde replied. "I can't tell you how grateful we are that you could accommodate us on such short notice."

"My pleasure as always, Miss Hawkeye." With a glance back at them, the man asked, "Will this be the usual delivery method?"

"Actually, no. I'll need you to store everything in your warehouse for the time being. Will that be a problem?"

"Of course not," he replied with a shake of the head, pushing open one of the various identical doors they'd passed. "Please, browse at your leisure."

"Thank you, Vato," Riza said as she led the way through.

The room beyond was much like the corridor they'd just abandoned, with the same dark floors and nondescript walls. However, this space was approximately four times the size of the initial entryway, and it was lined on all sides with black tables, which in turn displayed carefully curated merchandise. On the first he found decks of playing cards, in a variety of designs and colors, the next held game counters, and on it went, with each display offering at least twenty forms of a particular item. At the far end of the room the pattern changed, with several oblong tables arranged in a circle for them to peruse.

He glanced around to find the blonde watching him, the door closed behind her and Falman nowhere to be found. She joined him at the first array, examining the design on the back of a silver playing card, and asked, "Is this sufficient? Or would you like a larger selection?"

"It's perfect, and I'll take these," Roy said, setting a deck on the table's front edge, one decorated with silver filigree on a black background. "Two hundred decks." He paced backwards to the next item, taking her hand to gently pull her along, and finally broached a topic he'd been contemplating since the night Lan Fan showed up at their safe house. "You already knew about my past life before I sent that note. That's the only way you could've known about Hughes' ex-wife that quickly."

"Brosh offered me a contract a year ago, and it didn't take me long to realize I already knew where Nick Sylvaine was." She stopped beside him, close enough for his hand to graze her thigh, and reached toward a stack of ceramic counters. "It wasn't the usual deal, just catch and release. He wanted to find you and, obviously, I turned it down."

"Thank you, for that." He smirked, selecting several colors of an elegantly carved, iron-core gaming chip and moving them to the forefront. "Twenty-five sets. Just these tints, no numerical denominations."

She reached for the stem of a crystal martini glass and held it up to the light. "Your friend Maes was part of the contract, as well. Brosh knows he's not dead."

He then paused in his examination of glassware to catch her eye. "Wonderful. That was probably the only thing keeping Hughes sane."

"This has been a _sane_ Hughes?" Riza smiled and slowly shook her head, returning the glass to the table-top as her expression sobered. "I assume you figured out who I was."

"After the Armstrongs, I had a good idea." He slid a few glasses around to indicate his choices and continued toward the display of light fixtures. "The elusive Ceres. I have to say, the code name doesn't seem like your style."

"I have Miles to thank for that," she said with a chuckle. "He was obsessed with _The Tempest_ for a little while."

Roy chose a simple glass votive holder, and a wall-mounted light which would be supplemented by recessed fixtures. "I owe you a thank you."

"You owe me nothing," she replied, leafing through the cocktail napkins on the following table.

"I know what happened three years ago wasn't about me." He moved past her to peruse the cutlery, and lowered his voice. "But in doing that, you protected us. So thank you."

"It may have been a _little_ about you." They shared a glance, mouths just barely curving, and then Riza turned the conversation back to business when she said, "We have an appointment tomorrow...at two."

"I haven't forgotten." Roy stopped beside an assortment of liquors and, because he was not quite over the moment, lightly took her hand yet again, enjoying the smile that returned to her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and have a good one :)


	17. The Venue

**The Venue** – May 11th – New York City

The stone-framed fireplace was exquisite, and walnut floors gleamed in the sunlight raining through large picture windows. Decorative moulding and tall baseboards implied an old-world elegance, while the updated fixtures and cool-toned walls lent the space a certain tranquility. Each room had been richly and professionally staged, with superior furnishings, luxurious drapes framing every window, and perfectly coordinated accent pieces. Their realtor was irritatingly friendly at best, and she led them from one room to the next enthusiastically detailing the many improvements and local amenities. Roy was only dimly aware when she fell behind to let them 'get a feel for the place.' His focus was on the woman beside him.

Hawkeye's hand was warm in his as they passed through the kitchen, with its marble counter-tops and stainless steel appliances, and he could not resist the urge to idly twist the fake engagement ring on her finger. She rewarded him with a smile, leading him toward the staircase that accessed the unit's second floor. They perused the living quarters at their leisure and, when they reached the master suite, she turned to walk backwards, pulling him toward the bay windows on the far wall.

"What do you think?"

"It's not exactly what I had in mind, but I like it." Roy laced his fingers with hers, his thumb again toying with the ring. "Is there an attic Maes can live in? The poor guy's helpless, can't be left alone."

She smirked. "I have a feeling he'd say you're the one that's helpless."

"Baseless accusations," he quietly rejoined, suddenly wondering what it would be like to wake up with her in that, or any, master bedroom.

Riza rearranged the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. "Are we on for dinner tonight?"

"Absolutely." He let a hand fall to lightly grasp her hip. "It's not _just_ for the plan."

Her expression warmed. "I know." Her smile grew more overtly cheerful, to suit their role of 'recently engaged couple,' and she raised her voice to say, "Rose, I think we're ready."

Footfalls came down the hall, and the young realtor entered with her usual grin. "What did you think?"

They shared a look, and the blonde replied, "We _love_ it, but we do have some questions."

"I understand the building's owner is on the premises today," Roy began, placing a hand at Hawkeye's lower back as they followed Rose into the corridor. "We'd like to speak with her before making such a sizable investment."

"Of course, I understand." The other woman pulled a phone from her pocket and started down the stairs. "I'll get in touch with her right now. She should be able to fit you in soon."

"Thank you," he responded pleasantly, waiting until she was out of earshot to say, "Anyway, I was thinking we'd pick up dinner and head to _your_ place. Mine's a craphole, as Lex likes to say."

Riza waved a hand around where they stood. "You're about to get an upgrade."

He nodded. "This apartment's great, don't get me wrong, but yours is better."

"You've never even seen it." She shook her head in amusement as she headed down the stairs and, not for the first time, his eye was drawn to that pale bullet scar.

"That's irrelevant." He shrugged, peering into the first-floor rooms they passed. "I've changed my mind. We'll paint one room the most obnoxious red I can find, and that's where Hughes will live."

"I assumed you'd have an eye for decorating." Hawkeye paused just outside the kitchen, the ring glittering as she raked a hand through her hair. "Apparently I was wrong. So very wrong."

He stopped mere inches away, head tilted. "Which part do you take issue with? Red, or obnoxious?"

She simply smirked, turning when a woman with light brown hair and green eyes appeared from the entryway. "It's nice to see you again, Gracia."

The new arrival smiled, and said over her shoulder, "I'll take it from here, Rose. Thank you." Once the realtor had gone, she added, "Always good to see you, Riza.

Hawkeye gestured with her clutch. "This is Roy Mustang. Roy...this is Gracia Traherne. She owns some very useful real estate in New York."

"A pleasure, Ms. Traherne," he greeted, shaking the hand she offered.

"Lovely to meet you, Mr. Mustang." Gracia paused, her gaze briefly moving between them. "What can I do for you?"

"To start, we'll take the apartment," Riza responded.

"We're also interested in The Sintra," Roy contributed. "We'd like to take a look if you have time."

The other woman's grin grew, and she led them toward the door. "Of course."

Once in the corridor, the trio filed into the service elevator, disembarking on the first subterranean level. From there they followed an ordinary hallway, pausing halfway down to access a small maintenance closet, in which they found shelves laden with cleaning supplies and a utility sink large enough to double as a bathtub. Behind one wooden shelving unit a door was concealed, and it opened on a space that spanned half the building's width and was surprisingly inviting given its location. Rather than dank carpets and severely outdated ornamentation, they found polished marble-topped tables, dark herringbone floors, and glass shelves lined with nearly every liquor known to man. He could work with that.

He meandered around the room, eyeing the light fixtures, silver-framed mirrors, and bar-height stools upholstered in a deep red. Roy ran a hand over the bar-top, perusing the bottles arrayed behind it, and said, "Egress?"

"Currently three points," Riza replied, joining him at the bar. "The door we used, another behind the floor-length mirror on the southern wall, and the last is a trapdoor near the eastern wall. It leads directly into the sewers." She indicated the aforementioned mirror, ambling in that direction while saying, "This is generally the main entrance, and I'd suggest we use it as some of our guests may already be familiar with it. _However_..." The blonde turned to point her clutch at the northern wall. "...I'd like a private exit added. I've discussed it with Gracia, and she's open to modifications."

Roy gave a nod, turning in place. "Decor? It's not terrible, but certain changes come to mind."

"Whatever you like." Gracia strolled toward them. "There's usually a fee, but Riza's done me a few favors. I'd be willing to negotiate."

He nodded once more. "We need it for an entire weekend. Will that be a problem?"

"If it is, I'll handle it." Ms. Traherne moved behind the bar, repositioning bottles that were hardly out of place. "Time frame?"

"The apartment we'll need immediately, furnishings included," Hawkeye responded, sharing a look with him before adding, "And this space will need to be ready in one week. I'll have a list of alterations sent over tomorrow and, needless to say, discretion is part of the deal."

"As always."

"And I need your staff roster," Riza said, leading the way toward the maintenance room. "They'll be fully vetted, and I'll send you a list of individuals we find acceptable."

"Anything you need." Gracia smiled, reaching out to shake their hands once again. "It'll be a pleasure working with you both." She dropped keys and a business card into the blonde's palm. "You have my direct line if anything comes up."

"Nice meeting you," Roy said as they made for the service elevator. He ascended with Hawkeye, leaving the brunette in her fortified and well-hidden office, and back on the top floor they let themselves into the recently acquired apartment. They then embarked on another walk-through of their new base of operations, moving from one room to the next as they finalized a list of necessary purchases, everything from surveillance equipment to groceries and clothing.

They were once more in the master suite, in the midst of settling their dinner plans, when he lifted a hand to cup her jaw, his fingers _finally_ weaving into her hair. He felt her skin warm and, as her hand traveled up his chest, he kissed her, pulling her against him by the curve of her hip. Her lips were soft, her grip on his lapel firm, and before long his hands were following the arch of her back.

By the time Riza pulled away, a grin playing at her mouth, his back was against a wall and her purse lay forgotten on the floor. She smoothed the wrinkled fabric of his suit, and he kissed her again, brushing her hair aside solely as an excuse to ghost his fingers over her neck. He bent to retrieve her clutch, and when he passed it over she took his hand, running a thumb over the scar on his palm. "Where did this come from?"

"Razor blade. A drug dealer wanted information." His fingertips again found the curved scar on her scalp, the one he'd overheard her discussing on a rainy night at his house. "And this? I have a feeling it didn't come from a car accident."

"Knife fight in Gothenburg. I dodged a split-second late." She checked her phone, and a corner of her mouth furrowed in displeasure. "There's an issue I need to handle." Straightening her clothes and combing a hand through her hair, she asked, "Am I presentable?"

"You probably shouldn't ask me." Roy smirked, drawing her close to graze his lips over hers a final time. "I'm biased."

Her smile broadened as she led him from the room, and the afternoon that followed was, quite possibly, the longest of his life. They were joined for dinner at her apartment by Lex and Ling, and after dinner came a round of drinks, and during the drinks began a game of cards. Ultimately, he was forced to keep a semblance of distance for an entire evening before the younger pair decided it was time to hit a secluded bar or two. Then the blonde pulled him into her bedroom, and that night he felt the skin of her waist beneath his palm, felt her hair graze his chest. Her breath hitched when his lips brushed her neck, and Roy decided to make plans, because he refused to spend three days without her, let alone risk another three years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and have a good one!


	18. The Truth: Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I hope life is good :) I've finally gotten the remaining chapters for Astra all written, and am now just taking care of some last-minute changes and editing. Yay! Major gratitude goes to my husband for reading chapters when I feel like I'm losing my mind, and to Tasia for always being so encouraging.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter!

**The Truth** (Part 1) – May 12th – New York City

A clock ticked softly from atop the mantelpiece, and faint moonlight streamed into the otherwise darkened room, illuminating the shelves of classical vinyl on the far wall. A half-empty glass of wine stood forgotten on the bedside table, while somewhere on the street below a car door slammed. Roy leaned against the headboard of the most comfortable king-sized bed in history, Riza's back flush with his chest and the fingers of one hand gently laced with hers. The sheets wrapped around their legs were impossibly smooth, and he turned his head to kiss her temple, once more catching the hints of lilac in her hair.

She leaned into the gesture, humming quietly. "Your first scam."

"Mostly small games for a little money...quick-changes, cold reads, that sort of thing." He took a breath, the fingers of his other hand traveling up the warm skin of her thigh. "Your first contract."

A trace of sadness in her voice, Riza said, "A DEA agent that was causing trouble." She paused, and he felt her tense minutely. "Clarence threatened my mother, said he'd slit her throat and leave her in my bathtub if I didn't take the contract."

He wrapped a sympathetic arm around her. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you." Her voice had lowered so much he could hardly hear it and, as Riza's hand followed the arm encircling her waist, his hair rose. "Ex-girlfriend."

"Mila. We dated for eleven months, and that was my longest relationship before the fake marriage." He twisted the faux-engagement ring she still wore, wondering if she'd call him crazy for wanting to make it real. "And your non-fiancé? I've always had a feeling he was real."

She nodded slowly. "He died in Gothenburg."

Roy's eyes searched the far wall as he recalled their earlier conversation. "Before or after the knife fight?"

"Before." Pulling her hair over a shoulder, she asked, amusement abruptly lacing her tone, " _How_ did you meet Hughes?"

"On a cruise ship, of all places. And I _hate_ cruise ships." He shook his head, and placed a kiss on her newly exposed neck. "I was there with my dad. We were posing as real-estate developers, reeling in fish. Maes was with the Marshals, fresh out of training and trying to track down an asset that skipped town. Being the fantastic guy that I am, I helped him out."

Riza's mouth curved curiously. "And eventually you brought him over to the dark side?"

" _That_ involved a stabbing, and a very rare Tibetan singing bowl." His lips grazed the shell of her ear as he spoke, her hand tightening in his. "And I can't talk about it."

He felt her laugh more than heard it. "Fair enough."

Roy leaned his head back and asked, "Family?"

"My mother and grandfather are dead. I never knew my father." She played with the sheet's edge for a moment, satin rustling softly. "You?"

"My parents pulled a disappearing act when I did. I have no idea where they are." He gave a gentle shrug. "As for Ling, the poor guy's stuck with me."

"As stepfathers go, he could do far worse."

" _Thanks_ ," he chuckled, his grin suddenly weakening when he reached a disheartening conclusion. "Clarence was your stepfather."

"Yeah," she quietly replied, that sadness temporarily resurfacing. She tilted her head, her hair brushing his skin, and preempted any response by saying, "One more question, and then I'm ready to fall asleep."

Mouth against her shoulder, he said, "Whenever you're ready, Miss Hawkeye."

Riza turned with narrowed eyes, ghosting her lips up his chest until his hand cupped her jaw and drew her into a proper kiss. She straddled him and tucked hair behind her ear, avoiding his eyes as she asked, "What exactly do you see happening? After this job, I mean."

His hands rested on her hips as the silence momentarily pressed in upon them, and he smiled when she finally looked at him directly. "Anything you want." He glanced unfocused toward the records in his search for words, before finding her gaze again. "I'm serious, Riza. Even if you want to move to Antarctica, I'm in."

Her lips quirked. "I'm thinking _not_ Antarctica."

"That's fine, too." She watched him with something akin to wonder, as though she had trouble believing someone could make that declaration and mean it. The thought brought a hollow feeling to his chest, and he repeated, "I'm serious."

Without warning she kissed him again and, when she pulled back, it was with a single nod, her smile brighter. "Alright then." A hand on his chest, she said, "I need a glass of water. Want anything?"

Roy shook his head, lightly tugging on a lock of her hair. "No, thanks."

All too soon she was out of bed and slipping into a silk robe that grazed her thighs, combing fingers through her tresses on her way to the door. He listened to her receding steps, the footfalls quiet on the hardwood floor, and chose to ignore the light blinking on his phone. That resolve ended when he thought of Ling's recent beating, and he skimmed the messages, relieved to find them benign. Reclining against the headboard once more, he contemplated destinations, wondering if Hawkeye had ever been to Portugal, if she'd like to visit this little village he loved.

It should have been impossible to wipe the grin from his face, however, it managed to dwindle when he realized there was a marked absence of sound from the kitchen. Quietly he slid out of the sheets, secreting the small handgun from her clutch into the rear waistband of his shorts before grabbing the sidearm from the bedside table. He paced silently toward the door, peered through it in either direction, and then swung into the corridor with the weapon raised. Both the spare bedroom and bathroom he passed were empty, and he continued down the hallway, every minor creak seeming emphatic in the otherwise soundless apartment. Though no telltale noise reached his ears, as he entered the living room his grip tightened reflexively, because there stood Brosh, holding Riza at gunpoint.

He moved forward carefully, and said, "You could've called, Den."

The man snorted in derision, just barely waving his Glock between them. "Busy, were you? _This_ didn't take long." When Roy took another step, he added sharply, "Don't fucking move."

"Sorry." He shook his head, slowly stepping in front of Riza. "But if you're going to point that at anyone, it's me."

"So it's more than just screwing on the job. That's beautiful." Their unexpected guest watched them, his head cocked to the side, and then released an irritated sigh. " _Jesus_. You knew each other, and I played right into it."

"You would've found out eventually," Roy began, feeling cool fingers on his lower back. "Except you didn't have any spies to follow us. All my excellent planning, completely wasted."

"I feel for you, I really do." Brosh took a half-step closer, something like desperation in his gaze. "But I _need_ that money, Nick. No more games."

"I have a stash, but we both know it's not liquid," he replied, and moved cautiously back to maintain the scant distance between them. "We found all your payments over the last few years. You're bankrupt. Just tell me what's going on." He felt her pull the weapon free then, one hand still on his back to keep him apprised of her position. "Who are they, and what do they have on you?"

The other man's fingers clenched, knuckles whitening. "It's not story time, asshole. Just..."

"Oh, I think it is," Hawkeye interjected, shifting smoothly to his left. "Two to one. You know what that means."

"Disarm," Roy demanded, and gestured toward the coffee table. "I'm officially calling a truce. If you break it, I vote Riza gets to shoot you. And I'd guess she can make it extra painful."

Her smile was minute, and far from friendly. "I really can."

Denny set the Glock aside with mild resignation, removing his jacket and adding it to the indicated table. Turning gradually around, he demonstrated a lack of shoulder and back holsters, and lifted his pant legs to prove he possessed no hidden knives. "Satisfied?"

"Of course, because _this_ is exactly how I saw my night going." Roy set his own firearm on a bookshelf as a display of good faith, and noticed the blonde merely lowered hers. "Anytime you want to talk would be great."

The man exhaled heavily, shaking his head and rubbing a hand over his jaw, as though he could not  
believe what he was about to reveal. "My wife and daughter were abducted a little over two months ago. The money's for the ransom, and I'm out of options."

Roy's brow rose, because he'd expected something closer to gambling debts, a deal gone horribly wrong, or maybe a little old-fashioned blackmail. _Kidnapping_ , however, had never crossed his mind since, as far as anyone knew, Brosh's only remaining relatives were an imprisoned father and an angry nephew. He shared an astonished look with Riza and a wry chuckle escaped him, because he fucking _knew_ that, if this captive family story turned out to be true, he'd end up helping the bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you liked the chapter, and have a good one!


	19. The Truth: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola :) I hope you enjoy chapter 19!

**The Truth** (Part 2) – May 12th – New York City

It was quarter to three in the morning and, instead of sleeping soundly in Hawkeye's bed, Roy stood in an annoyingly well-lit kitchen filling a burgundy mug with coffee. Despite his polite suggestion that they lock Brosh in the spare bedroom and deal with him later, their uninvited guest sat in the dining room, doggedly draining a bottle of gin. Caffeine in hand, he retraced his steps toward the table, and it was then he noticed the dark circles beneath his old friend's eyes, the haggard cheeks, the tension in his expression. Not far away, Ling watched his uncle with blatant enmity, an increasingly amused Lex filled a clip with rounds, and Hawkeye focused on cloning a burner phone.

Lowering himself into an upholstered side chair, he sipped his coffee and set a glass of water before the blonde, seemingly forgotten in the aftermath of the morning's surprises. She responded with an appreciative curve of the mouth, at which point Denny knocked back a shot and dryly observed, "Aren't you two sweet."

Riza's gaze turned a shade colder, and flicked toward the other man before returning to her laptop. "I'll remind you, Mr. Brosh, that your truce is with Mustang, not me."

Roy smirked into his mug. "How did you find her apartment?"

Their visitor poured himself another shot, gesturing with the bottle. "Miss Hawkeye here isn't as invisible as she used to be, and I'm not completely useless."

"Just _mostly_ ," he replied with a chuckle, and dragged a tired hand through his hair. "Let's start with any details you have."

Brosh subsequently downed his refill, as if in preparation. "My daughter's name is Irena Hudson, and she was with her mother, Brie, when they were taken near their home in Lewiston, Vermont. And yes, before you ask, she's the same Brie that I met in Amsterdam. We got back together about seven years ago." He nodded toward the burner and tapped the empty glass on the table a few times. "I got that phone the day they were taken. I was in town to visit and it was dropped off by courier at my hotel."

"And they've been sending photos as proof of life?" Roy asked, noting the shift in the man's gaze, an action which _could_ be a hint of duplicity, or merely a symptom of the anxiety felt by a concerned father. Those gestures that certain 'experts' lauded as surefire tells were at times unreliable, as their exact meaning depended upon context. The identification of the deceitful had always been more an art than a science.

"Every two weeks." The man gave a derisive laugh, adding, "I _knew_ you were in my hotel room." He paused again, this time to distractedly remove his already wrinkled tie. "These guys were careful from the beginning. They forced Brie to provide all this paperwork saying she was taking Irena abroad for the rest of the year, that she'd hired a private tutor."

"Any chance Brie's involved?" Riza then inquired.

Brosh shrugged, coupling the gesture with an uncertain, almost defeated shake of the head. "At first I would've said no, but I have no idea anymore. And I haven't exactly had the manpower to investigate." He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. "As for where all my money went, it was a few different places. Of course I found them a house, ensured my daughter went to the best schools, and hired a couple guys to keep them safe. Then Brie started having seizures, and I poured whatever I had into the best medical care I could find. They diagnosed her, she underwent multiple surgeries, and by that time I'd already halved my assets."

Roy gave a nod of comprehension. "So, your divestment from the Brosh organization two years ago, that wasn't voluntary."

"They didn't know about your family," Hawkeye concluded.

"Correct, to both. They forced me out, accused me of being distracted, and I left without a fight. They were right, I had other priorities."

He nodded once more, still watching the man's body language. "And the ten million you withdrew two months ago, I'm assuming that was the first round of extortion."

"Yeah, and it cleaned me out. I have a few hundred thousand hidden away, but that's it." Brosh shook his head, jaw clenching, and when he looked up the desperation had returned to his eyes. "Whoever they are, they had photos of my daughter doing homework at the _fucking_ dinner table."

Roy eyed him for several seconds and then shared a glance with Riza, his way of silently asking her opinion on the matter. Her response was to place a call, the ring echoing around the quiet room, and soon her hacker friend's voice came over the speakerphone. "Hey there, babe. I'm _sorta_ in the middle of murdering Mr. O.C.D. repeatedly. I think he's been living under an actual rock for ten years, because he's terrible at all video games. It's fantastic."

"Just wait til we go old school, dickweed," came Hughes' muffled response. "I'll destroy you in Tetris."

Havoc's laugh was almost maniacal. "Oh, you have no idea what you're ge..."

" _Jean_ ," the blonde interrupted sharply. "Missing kid."

"Whoa, holy shit." This reply was followed by a great deal of movement, and then he said, "Alright, go."

"As far as we know, the abduction occurred in Lewiston, Vermont. Two months ago. We have a burner, and I uploaded the clone to your server. I need you to check it out." Riza slid the phone in question across the table to its owner, and added, "See what you can find out about any children Brosh might've had. Talk to Miles if you have to. Any confirmation you can give us would be helpful."

"You got it." The hacker sighed loudly. " _When_ will people learn not to mess with kids? Seriously, I'm..."

"I can't believe you're actually buying this bullshit," Ling scoffed, shoving his chair back and muttering to himself as he left the room.

Roy slowly paced into the living room after him. "I'm not buying anything."

"That asshole nearly cost me an eye," his stepson retorted, pointing at the injury before angrily chucking his cellphone against the couch. "And now you're thinking about _helping_ him."

"I haven't forgotten what he did, but a little girl and her mother are missing." He ventured further into the room, straightening a couple books on the nearby shelf. "Your aunt, your _cousin_. And people like Denny Brosh can't just ask the cops for help."

The younger man shrugged, both in exasperation and confusion. "And if he's playing you?"

"I'm fairly good at reading people, Ling. And while he's usually full of shit, tonight Den's telling the truth." He strolled toward the window with a little wave, and leaned against the wall beside it. "Think about it. Strategically speaking, this wouldn't be a very useful ploy for him. No matter what, we're still not going to trust him."

Ling shrugged and dropped onto the sofa. "I guess I'm the only one that doesn't get it. Why have me beat up to get your attention, only to come forward now? It makes no sense."

"It does, actually." Riza emerged from the kitchen at that moment, fastening a couple buttons of her navy blue sweater. "Your capture was a show of strength, an attempt to put Roy on edge. Brosh is here tonight because he realized that, without help, there's no way this ends well for the woman and child."

His stepson's mouth formed a thin line. "It's weird, cause you're both talking like this is completely obvious. Well, I haven't been a criminal my whole life, and it's not. When kidnappers get what they want, they give the person _back_. Or so I thought."

"When they're amateurs, maybe." Lex took a seat beside him on the couch while she spoke. "For professionals, it's about the contract and the client. They'll milk the target as long as ordered, and kill the hostages once they're no longer useful."

"It's cleaner," the blonde quietly added, moving to join him near the window, her arms crossed. "Makes for an easier departure, and decreases the chances of being identified."

"That shit's cold." Ling's tone was sharp and, as he shook his head, his eyes roved to each of them in turn. "And you all seem fine with it. Makes me wonder what exactly you..."

"I understand that you're pissed," Roy began, cutting off his stepson with a pointed look. "But before you get too judgmental, keep in mind that both Lex and Riza helped us. No hesitation."

"Maybe we should discuss this tomorrow," Lan Fan gracefully suggested. "Take some time to..."

"I'm afraid I can't wait," Brosh himself interrupted as he stepped through the kitchen doorway. "I don't deserve your help, but I'll do _anything_ to save my family. I'm here, aren't I?"

Roy pushed off the wall. "If we do this, Den, then we're even. The past is forgotten, and we never see you, or anyone connected to you, ever again."

"I'll take that deal." They shook hands, and then the other man reached for his jacket, earnestly adding, "Thank you, Mustang. Really."

He waved a hand toward the door. "Alright, you're welcome. Now get the hell out of here. We'll be in touch." Lowering his voice, he said, "If I'm wrong..."

Brosh's eyes jumped toward the blonde. "Yeah, pretty sure I know what would happen."

Their visitor finally left, and a somewhat tense silence fell over the room as Roy searched for words that might appease the frustration radiating from his stepson. In his world, he'd often been forced to think in terms of _allies_ as opposed to _friends_ , and more than once he had worked with a perceived enemy because their motivations happened to be aligned. Real trust was a luxury, only shared on rare occasions, and doing business with the more capricious and volatile members of society was merely an unavoidable facet of existence. However, while he could generally talk himself in or out of any situation, he found it difficult to explain those realities to someone who, fortunately, had never been forced to live that life.

Just when he was about to speak, Ling rose without warning and strode through the door. He was swiftly followed by Lex, who shot them a look which clearly said, _I'll make sure he doesn't do anything stupid_.

Roy's shoulders fell as the door clicked shut. "I know, I know...he needs time. Right?"

"I wasn't going to say a word." Riza paced toward him with a gentle shrug. "But yes, I think he'll understand. Eventually."

Taking his hand, she led him into her bedroom to steal what rest they could, and he gratefully fell back into the sheets. The early morning ultimately returned to its initial tranquility, with that comfortable darkness and the faint ticking of a clock. Between the luxurious bed and her warmth beside him, Roy began to drift more quickly than usual, until her quiet voice cut through the calm, her arm wrapping around his middle. "You need to quit standing between me and firearms. I don't want to see you in another hospital bed."

He shook his head and drew her closer. "Better me than you."

With a light kiss on his jaw, Riza whispered, "Agree to disagree."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you liked the chapter, and have a good one!


	20. The Investigation (Part 1)

**The Investigation** (Part 1) – May 14th – Northern Vermont

With a glance back down the secluded driveway, Roy slowly pushed open the front door of the charming three-story, brick farmhouse, his trigger finger resting along the barrel of a pistol. The air that washed over his face held an unsurprising though faint putrid note, no doubt from a lack of circulation and the trash that had not been collected in months. His initial steps inside were accompanied by the quiet groan of old floorboards, and the high-pitched complaints of an alarm system. He paused to inspect the keypad mounted on the wall and, with a minor quirk to his mouth, he typed in a series of four digits, at which point the house once again fell silent.

Though their foes were almost certainly long gone, a cautious infiltration ensued, and thus he peered through the pocket doors to his right, finding a comfortable sitting room with a plush sofa, a little-used fireplace, and a metal music stand in the corner nearest the windows. Then he turned to catch Lex's eye where she stood in the doorway of a remodeled living room, and they shared a nod, simultaneously moving on to the next set of pocket doors leading off the entryway. Edging them open with his free hand, he saw a large dining area, with the built-in cabinetry and sideboard common to older homes, as well as an antique wenge table that could seat twelve. The centerpiece of decaying roses only served to add a sense of loneliness to an already dispiriting situation.

Roy looked over at the sound of additional footfalls, watching Hawkeye and Hughes appear from either side of the floating staircase, which concealed the kitchen beyond. The blonde led the way upstairs, her steps causing nary a creak, and he was reminded of her past occupation, briefly wondering how often she'd crept soundlessly up stairwells and along corridors. She'd been distant on the flight north, the idea of loved ones used as leverage no doubt hitting unpleasantly close to home, taking her back to a time she'd clearly fought to leave behind. For his part, it forced him to think of his parents who, for all he knew, might already be dead. It was hardly an encouraging thought.

On the next landing the pairs separated again, he and Lex taking the second floor while the others continued toward the third. Efficiently they cleared an office, two guest rooms, a master suite, an additional full bath, and what appeared to be a child's bedroom. Meeting Hughes at the stairs, he received a brusque nod and made his way down to the foyer, tapping his earpiece to announce, "All clear, Havoc."

The hacker's voice took on the tone of a friendly tour guide, or cheerful airline attendant, when he said, "This period of radio silence was brought to you by Denny Brosh, eternal jackhole and bane of my existence. Thank you for your cooperation, you may now speak freely, minions."

"Here we go with the stupid nicknames," Lex replied, returning to the living room for a more comprehensive search. "You're a friggin lunatic."

"I'm stuck in a van, and I'll call people whatever I want." There was a pause, and then, "I shall call this van Westley, because I just watched The Prin..."

"I didn't even give you the _code_ ," Brosh interrupted, having been tapped into their comms despite remaining in New York, to keep their wily kidnappers from growing suspicious. "How exactly did you turn off the alarm?"

"Really?" Roy chuckled, opening the front door for his stepson, who carried a large collection of equipment and appeared confused. "These systems always have multiple disarm codes. One of them was bound to be your daughter's birthday. You're sentimental that way."

The other man released what sounded like a snort. "Screw you."

"Question," Ling began as he dropped a bag onto the floor, causing Roy to turn halfway across the vestibule. "Why am I the computer guy's flunkey?"

He shrugged, and continued to pace backward to the stairs with a grin. "You're the least experienced, which means you're the rookie. Just the way it works."

"Yeah, suck it up," Havoc interjected. "And get to work, _servant_. I'm not picking up any signals, but they might've been super duper sneaky."

"Do you plan the dumb things you say?" the younger man asked. "Or do they just happen?"

Roy ascended to the second floor and made his way toward the daughter's bedroom, taking a moment to observe from the doorway. He was first struck by the unexpected tidiness of the space, with each coloring book on a shelf, every stuffed animal tucked away in a basket, and the bed neatly made. Paired with the general absence of clutter throughout the home, he was inclined to think the cleanliness a result of the mother's compulsions. Opening the closet, he found a small suitcase, which implied that, if they'd left of their own volition, the extended trip was unplanned. He knelt beside the collection of stuffed animals and sifted through them, looking for one that appeared more frayed and faded than the rest. "Was there anything she liked to carry with her, Den? Any kind of comfort item?"

"Yeah, this stuffed zebra. She took it everywhere, even to school." The man's voice warmed nostalgically then. "It was so worn I had to sew a green and white striped patch on one side."

"You have so many secret talents," Hughes commented wryly.

"I shot you once," Brosh retorted. "I'll do it again."

Roy ignored the bickering, and paused once more in the doorway for a final perusal. "I don't have the zebra. Anyone seen it in the house? That or a backpack?"

"Nothing up here," Maes replied, stomping audibly around the third floor.

"Nada," Lex contributed, voice chipper. "This place is pretty clean so far, in basically every sense of the word."

He strode down the hallway and stopped near the entrance to the master suite, catching Riza's eye as she shut the closet with a shake of her head. "I haven't found a purse or phone from the mom, either. And the car's missing from the garage."

"No sign of forced entry, or a struggle. Either the abduction happened elsewhere, or Brie knew the attackers." He glanced around the room in thought. "I know this house is obsessively organized, _almost_ to the point it doesn't feel lived in, but I'm not picking up on any real detachment."

The blonde moved closer to hand him a photo, the well-worn crease suggesting it was looked at often. "I'm inclined to agree. There were finger paintings on the fridge, and other obvious art projects scattered through the house."

Roy unfolded it to see a snapshot of the smiling Brosh family on a carnival ride, and then slipped it into a pocket. "Doesn't seem like the kind of mom that would sell out her kid for a ransom."

Under his breath, the mobster muttered, "Thank fucking god."

"My best guess would be the abduction took place before school, probably when Brie was about to drop her off," Hughes supplied, his steps approaching until he stopped at the foot of the stairs with a pensive shrug. "They hold the girl while the mom submits the bogus paperwork. Two captives and no missing persons report. At least not right away."

"Den?" he asked, and glanced down the corridor to see Ling pacing about randomly and typing on the tablet in his hand.

"Ahh, Irving Lina Academy," Brosh replied. "It's a private school a couple towns over."

"I'll see what I can do from here," Havoc said, adding a moment later, "We still haven't found any devices in the house. Either our kidnappers didn't need surveillance, or they were majorly old school. Ya know, watching from the trees, creepy shit like that."

"Hughes, Lex...check outside." With a nod the other man continued down the stairs, and he heard Lan Fan agree not a second later, but Roy stayed in the center of the hallway. Once those footsteps had been muffled by distance, he tapped the earpiece to disable it and impulsively took the blonde's hand, gently drawing her closer. His other palm found her waist, sliding round to her lower back, and he felt her free hand rest naturally on his shoulder, as if they'd danced a million times. Her expression softened as they slowly turned, her fingers disappearing just long enough to mute her own comm. With curved lips near the shell of her ear, he said, "Remember that museum gala we attended for the firm?"

Her hand tightened reflexively, a reaction he truly adored. "Yes, you asked me to dance." More quietly, she added, "And it was the first time I thought that, _maybe_ , I wasn't losing my damn mind."

He grinned, and whirled them a touch faster. "Just wanted to make sure you hadn't forgotten."

Finally, she laughed, her fingertips briefly twisting in his hair. "Thank you for this."

He nodded and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. "You're welcome."

"We could look into finding your parents, if you want." Riza's voice lowered then. "You're not the only one that can read people, Roy Mustang."

He smiled again, because _of course_ she'd figured him out. "It seems I've met my match."

"Havoc's trying to talk to you," Ling interjected, glancing at the blonde as he passed to enter the master bedroom. "And he's extremely annoying about it."

With a smirk she enabled her comm, and Roy followed suit in time to hear her say, "Yes, oh great one?"

"Umm, we have a missing mother and child on our hands. Explain yourself."

" _No_." She pulled away and started down the hall, the curve of her mouth lingering. "What is it?"

"Ya know that number you took off Dirtbag Denny's burner? Well, I figured you might like to know the linked phone was turned on. But maybe you're just not interested. Apparently you're busy."

"Contact Miles," Hawkeye began. "Have him send someone to get eyes on..."

"Where is it?" Brosh interrupted with urgency, each word crisply enunciated. "I'll find the bastard."

Roy shook his head. "Do _not_ say a word, Havoc."

"Mustang, this is my family we're talking about. I will fucki..."

"We need to be smart about this, Den."

Riza nodded in agreement, her posture slightly tense. "If you're seen following a member of the crew, they'll kill Brie and Irena before we can even make a move."

"And I think you know that." He paced briefly, catching the blonde's eye. "We have to let them think they're winning, until the instant they're not. That's the only way this works."

" _S_ _hit_." There was a pause, followed by a weighty, resigned breath. "Fine. I'll behave."

"Havoc?" Riza asked.

"Already taken care of, babe."

" _Oo_ _h_ , hey," Lex suddenly said via the earpiece. "Good news. We might've found a mistake."

"There's a road east of the property," Hughes explained. "It's the perfect vantage point to watch the house. We've got cigarette butts, and some fairly deep tire tracks that could be from the kidnappers."

"Yeah, but let's get to the seriously great part," the younger woman exuberantly told them. "The rich people that live back here have a fancy camera, and it looks out over this spot. _Suckers_."

"Gimme a minute," Havoc replied. "I'm a little busy with the five thousand other things you all asked me to do. And then I gotta check the school's security system, cause I'm bettin' they cased the place."

"Cranky, cranky," Lex teased.

"I don't see you helping, Miss Computer Science."

Roy chuckled, still standing on the second floor landing. "Keep checking out the house, see what you can find. And take your time, Havoc, we'll handle the school." He paused to find the blonde's gaze again, his brow quirked. "What do you think, married couple?"

Riza smirked. "I _have_ always wanted my fake kids to go to a private school."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and have a good one!


	21. The Investigation (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope life is good :) So when I originally posted chapter 18, I mentioned that all the chapters were written and it was just a matter of editing before posting. Then I decided I wasn't entirely satisfied and ended up rewriting much of those final chapters (and adding another one lol). This is the first of five more, and they really are all written out, just waiting on a last round of edits.
> 
> On to chapter 21, I hope you enjoy it :)

**The Investigation** (Part 2) – May 14th – Northern Vermont

The Irving Lina Academy was a collection of lovely Georgian buildings located on six hundred acres of lush, forested hills. Miles of trails traversed the parkland, wandering through stands of evergreens and around the idyllic little ponds that dotted the countryside. Brick-paved paths crossed the campus lawns, leading from the modernized residence hall and skating rink, to a beautiful library which dated from the late nineteenth century. An eerie marble tombstone was set into the lobby floor, its walls were full of gracefully carved stone, and large arched windows looked out on a brilliant, sun-soaked landscape. Students milled about, some lounging outdoors, basking in the freedom of completed finals, while others rushed to finish last-minute tests and projects.

Roy strolled amidst the bustle, enjoying the bright day and his temporarily earpiece-free existence, not least because he was no longer subjected to the hacker's extraneous and near-reverent views of Savage Garden. It afforded him some valuable privacy, as well, and with curved lips he gave Riza's hand a playful squeeze, the faux engagement ring again gracing a certain slender finger. They followed one of the many tidy brick pathways, ambling from one building to the next on their supposed 'tour,' pretending to decide if their non-existent daughter Roselyn might benefit from the Olympic-sized swimming pool or private stables.

The blonde shifted closer, stepping away from the purple crocuses she'd been admiring, and quirked her brow at him. "Why do I get the feeling you were the king of a fancy place like this?"

He gave a non-committal shrug. "I wouldn't say _king_ , but I did alright."

Her laughter was light, and then what sounded like a reluctant exhalation escaped her. "Apparently we've wandered long enough."

Roy followed her gaze to the figure descending the main building's steps. "This Headmaster Dagen is determined."

"And irritating." She perched a hand on the crook of his arm, leaning her head on his shoulder. "I suppose tranquilizing him is out of the question?"

"As much as I'd love to see that," he began in amusement, momentarily distracted by the way her hair spilled over his jacket, "it's not the most subtle option."

"I can't argue with that. Just thought it might be _fun_."

Then Headmaster Dagen himself approached with an affected grin, thick-framed glasses on his long nose. "I hope you enjoyed your walk, Mr. and Mrs. Ryland."

"The campus is beautiful," Riza replied with a nod. "We took one of the trails and it was absolutely gorgeous. My husband was eyeing that golf course of yours."

"Guilty." He patted his wife's hand, smile sheepish. "She knows me so well."

Already reaching for his phone, the headmaster said, "We could set up a tee time for you, if you'd like."

"That's not necessary," was the blonde's dismissive reply. "We were wondering, however, if it's possible to pay for a private room in the residence hall. We don't want Roselyn rooming with just anyone. I'm sure you understand."

"Certainly, ma'am. We have a variety of options in that regard. If..."

"Overall, the school is acceptable," Roy interrupted, with the tone of one utterly indifferent to the minutiae of residential arrangements. "Our real concern is security. My business can be fairly volatile, and I need to be sure our daughter will have adequate protection."

His wife squeezed his arm, concern overwhelming her features. "Darling, perhaps Jean was right, maybe this isn't the right place for our little girl. It's lovely, but I'm not sure it's _safe_ enough."

"I assure you, Mrs. Ryland, our security and surveillance systems are more comprehensive than many of our competitors," Dagen tensely supplied, a nervous set to his mouth as he started to fear losing such wealthy clients. They _had_ offered to donate twenty million dollars, after all, but only in the event they entrusted their daughter's education to that particular establishment. "And we are more than happy to accommodate any personal security you've hired. They can't live with the students, but we have other housing available."

"After what happened at her last school..." She shook her head, brow furrowed with worry. "I'd feel better if she stayed with me."

"Nadia, love, we talked about this," Roy gently said, brushing hair from her face. "We agreed this was best."

Her nod was hesitant. "I just hate to have her so far away."

"I know. We could take a look at their system, that might reassure you." After another lukewarm nod from his wife, Roy glanced at the headmaster, who had made a show of looking everywhere else. "We _can_ review the security system, yes?"

"Of course, Mr. Ryland." The man gestured toward the nearest doorway with an arm. "Right this way."

The couple followed and, once their guide's back was turned, Riza reclaimed his hand, giving him a quick wink. The group soon entered the eastern wing of the main building, passing gauche stained-glass windows and cases housing a collection of awards and plaques from the past hundred years. The floors gleamed from recent polish, and he caught the mild scent of paint fumes as they passed another hallway, suggesting that some portion of the edifice had undergone recent renovations. After mere minutes, they reached a thick wooden door which appeared to have been reinforced, and Dagen swiped an identification card on a panel near the latch before typing in a six-digit code.

A security guard rose from his seat when they entered, expression quizzical, but moved aside at a signal from his employer. One massive screen covered the wall, showing the feeds from countless cameras, and Roy scanned them to find views of every parking lot, sections of the library and residence halls, the entrance gates, classrooms, and even the boathouse. Personally, that intrusive level of surveillance would have made him uneasy if he were truly evaluating the campus. The headmaster, however, was clearly proud as he boasted, "Our cameras are monitored twenty four hours, we have guards posted at every entrance to the property, and additional personnel make regular rounds of every building. I promise you, your daughter couldn't be safer. No unauthorized individuals set foot on the grounds. Any intruders would be swiftly dealt with. Our system is linked directly to local law enforcement, and..."

Just then Roy's legs gave out, and the blonde let out a shout of surprise, catching him as well as she could and guiding him into an empty chair. His elbows rested on his knees, head in his hands, and his anxious wife said, "Not again. Jake? Are you alright?"

He found her gaze with a nod, attempting to stand, but fell back into the seat seconds later. Dagen hovered close by, uselessly and repeatedly muttering _Oh my goodness_ under his breath, his eyes widened as if he were watching twenty million dollars actively slip down the drain. Roy patted his pockets awkwardly and his wife rifled through her bag, heaving a frustrated sigh as she knelt before him. She tossed the guard a set of car keys and said, " _Please_ hurry, his pills are in the center console, and someone get my husband a glass of water, for heaven's sake."

"Yes, yes, of course," the headmaster hastily replied, ushering the guard out the door.

"Make sure it's Veen, if you have it. He can _not_ handle tap water."

Dagen disappeared down the corridor with a tight smile, shouting unintelligibly at the unfortunate guard. As soon as the door swung shut Roy straightened, immediately moving to pan through the many camera feeds until he located the men in question. "Veen?"

"The Rylands are pretentious, in case you haven't noticed." She pushed a stool aside to claim a space at the counter and shot him a smirk. "You call that subtle?"

"More-so than your 'minor explosion' idea, yeah." He set a phone beside the keyboard, which she connected to the computer via a cable produced from her purse. "Havoc sent a photo of the car and plate. That's all they could get from the private security camera."

Riza proceeded to insert a flash drive and type rapidly into a command prompt, slowly shaking her head. "Here's hoping I remember how to do this." Other windows began popping up as she accessed the system, cross-referencing the image against the footage taken during the abduction time-frame. The process must have involved some clever program created by Havoc, because matching stills flashed across the monitor before automatically transferring to the phone.

His eyes roved the larger screen once again. "The guard already reached the parking lot, but Dagen's definitely taking his time. I could be _dying_ and the guy looks like he's going out for a latte." His head tilted when a thought occurred, and he asked, "Whose keys were those?"

She pointed toward a shelf near where she'd previously knelt. "Not sure. They were in that lost-and-found box."

Roy paced to stand behind her, his attention briefly leaving the feeds as he kissed the hinge of her jaw. "Have I mentioned you're incredible?"

She spared only a glance for the cell that suddenly buzzed from her purse, and he heard the warmth of a smile in her voice when she said, "Our ride's here, and you're not helping."

"Not at all? That's weird." With a hand on her lower back, he added, "Dagen's entering his office."

"Nearly there. I'm wiping footage for the last hour, and halting the archival process." She paused to check the search progress, and continued, "We'll have ten minutes to exit before the cameras start backing up to the server again. They might see us, but we won't actually be recorded."

At her nod, he collected his phone and the cord, returning the latter to her bag as she typed in a final command. The various programs were quickly terminated and, once she'd retrieved the flash drive, he reached for the door latch, shooting a final look at the screen. "Clear."

In a few steps they crossed into another corridor, cutting through empty classrooms and hallways toward one of the building's rear exits. Once outdoors they kept their pace on the relaxed side of hurried, and meandered over the lawn in the direction of a smaller parking area often used by maintenance staff. They passed between the ridged trunks of two forty-foot hackberry trees and saw the lot ahead, hedged by a line of evergreen shrubs. After slipping through a gap in that border, the pair came upon an idling sedan with tinted windows, the paint a deep navy blue, and he opened the door for her with a mildly exaggerated flourish.

She smirked, and pulled him closer by the lapel for an impromptu kiss. "Sometimes you're a dork."

"Very true." His hand rose ever-so-lightly to her waist. "It's part..."

An untimely interruption came in the form of the clearing of an unseen individual's throat. "Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Ryland, this chariot's on a schedule." They slid grudgingly into the rear passenger seats, and Lex eyed them in the rear-view mirror. "Having _fun_?"

"We were," was Roy's good-natured retort.

The younger woman snorted her amusement, and headed down the lane away from the campus center. "The phone in NYC turned out to be a dead end, Miles' guys didn't find anyone. And this school is seriously messed up...hello big brother...but I guess it's great for us. Havoc skimmed the stills from your cell, and we caught a couple faces. He already has Ling running them through facial."

"At least there's some good news," Riza quietly replied, watching Irving's manicured lawns float past.

In minutes the sedan was rolling through the nearest gate, speeding along the rambling country highway on the way to a secluded airstrip. The scenery changed from stands of pines, to groves predominated by resilient maples, to richly landscaped properties and back again. Warm spring air swirled into the cabin via cracked windows, largely drowning the music which softly poured from the radio, and Lex infrequently spoke into an earpiece connecting her with the rest of the team. Roy had finished reading yet another text from his stepson, full of entertaining complaints about the hacker, when the blonde discreetly took his hand, and his mouth curved.

He looked over to find her own expression somewhat pensive, but he was only able to open his mouth before Lex said, "They have something."

Seconds later Havoc's voice boomed over the car's speakerphone: "You're not gonna believe this, but the rookie already found a match. He's smarter than he looks."

"Bite. Me."

" _Anyway_ , meet Heinkel and Darius, basically the biggest shitsticks in the galaxy," the man continued, his tone surprisingly buoyant. "They're wanted in connection with a bunch of schemes, in fifty different countries, but it seems like kidnapping is their go-to shtick."

He leaned back in his seat. "Known associates?"

"A few. We'll keep an eye out."

"Anything else from the..." Roy trailed off, noticing the other woman's abruptly crinkled brow. "Riza?"

She looked up from the phone in her hand, expression utterly bewildered. "I just received a message from Izumi. Claims she has information about Brosh's family."

Taken slightly aback, he borrowed the device to read, even as Havoc said, "Izumi? As in _Curtis_? Cause if I remember correctly, she wasn't nice. Something about a spleen being thrown at some guy's face."

"That was her driver," she replied absently. "She always liked me, though."

"You're sure it's her?" Roy interjected, suspicious of both the information offered and the timing.

"As certain as I can be. It was forwarded from another number, one I only gave to Izumi."

He shook his head in frustration, his gaze leaving the device to meet hers. "Just once I'd like this situation to get _less_ complicated."

The blonde smirked. "Wouldn't that be nice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you liked the chapter, and have a good one!


	22. The Prelim

**The Prelim** – May 18th – N.Y.C.

The pistol was comfortably cool in her hand, and Riza's footfalls reverberated softly in the empty stairwell. She passed bland concrete walls, the stories marked by forest green numerals, and the lip of each step was painted a faded yellow. Occasionally, the shrill whine of brakes would rise from the street, but otherwise her ascent was uninterrupted, and she paused on the fifth floor landing to peer through the doorway. At that hour the parking garage was almost entirely vacant, and she saw a single vehicle stationed midway between two doors.

She stepped out, and a second later Lan Fan materialized at the far end of the structure, both pacing warily toward the sedan. It turned out to be a black Jaguar, the model perhaps five years old, with tinted glass and Massachusetts plates. The first detail of note was the bullet hole through the driver's side window and, while the brunette circled the car, she dropped to the ground to inspect the undercarriage. "Clear."

Lex pulled her up, suspiciously observing the nearest buildings, and in particular the many windows. "I'm not crazy about this."

"If there was anyone here, they would've shot us already." She cast another look around and tried the passenger side door, finding it somewhat predictably unlocked. The interior was unoccupied, save for the body of a portly chauffeur, and the leather was spattered with blood and brain tissue. Snapping a photo of the man's face, they quickly searched the vehicle to no avail and accessed the navigation history, which had naturally been erased. The trunk proved similarly unhelpful, and after mere minutes they were striding toward the door, the Jaguar left exactly as it was found. "This is definitely the car you spotted on traffic cams, but we don't have much except a dead driver. I'm guessing the hit was outsourced."

Havoc's voice soon filled her earpiece. "Copy that, babe. Any plates for the rookie?"

"Sending them now," Lex replied. "I'm pretty sure they're useless, but we might get lucky. Didn't I say this would be pointless?"

"It's called being thorough, Miss Sassy-pants. By the way, the party's started, and the shitsticks have officially arrived." Savage Garden lyrics briefly overtook the feed, and then: "You ladies headed back? I think boyfriend's getting antsy."

Riza smirked on her way back downstairs. "Funny."

"Not Mustang, he's a total professional. _R_ _espect_. I'm talking about Ling. The rookie's got a crush on our little peach. He hasn't shut up about her."

"I only asked _one_ question," the younger man countered. "Hawkeye, how attached to this guy are you? Scale of one to ten."

"She's very attached, for your information. And try not to interrupt me when I'm making fun of you."

"At this moment, I'd say about a six." Her reply distracted, she eyed her phone for the fifteenth time that day, scrolling through the previously read messages with a disapproving frown. "Have your nets picked up anything? Izumi never takes this long to respond."

"Nada, Capitán. As far as I can tell, she hasn't reached out again."

Riza paused with her fingers on the door handle, and let out a pensive exhalation. "Then we're making another stop. Can you find her?"

"No need. Head to the Village," the hacker began. "I'm texting you the address of her apartment. If she's still in town, that's where she'll be staying."

"Okay, creepy stalker guy," Lan Fan teased, dropping into the passenger seat.

"What? The Curtis' have laundered money for almost every major syndicate under the sun. It's smart to keep track of people like that." Havoc was silent for only an instant before his cheerful voice returned. "Hey, we're getting a call from Hughes, he says it's urgent. _Speak_ , dude."

They briefly heard static, followed by a great deal of conversation and the clinking of dishes, suggesting Maes had stepped into the kitchen to place the call. "Okay, first...no hotel keys on our guys, and if Darius has a cell, this thing you gave me can't clone it. I've gotten close enough twice, and if I try again, I think he'll notice. And I like my life."

"Way to be brave," the hacker rejoined.

"The guy safely tucked away in the penthouse apartment isn't allowed to judge. Anyway, two questions. Is Gracia seeing anyone? And how does she feel about sophisticated, ex-law enforcement types?"

Havoc laughed. "Ms. Traherne only dates billionaires."

"Would she make an exception for an extremely handsome _mill_ ionaire? And tell her I'm ultra talented, if you know what I mean."

"First, that was _not_ urgent. Second, she's seriously out of your league, glasses. And I'm hanging up on you." There was another break, while he likely refreshed his drink, and then: "I sent Lexie-poo the address, and try to make this visit quick."

"Copy."

Mouth curved in amusement, Riza eased into the street and fought the mild irritation that formed at the sight of packed lanes. A sense of urgency had developed over the course of the evening, a mother and daughter _were_ missing, and the fact that they remained at the mercy of ordinary obstacles like traffic was unhelpful. This was compounded by her inability to communicate directly with either Mustang or Hughes, which meant her only updates on their progress would come from Havoc. Roy had decided earpieces were an unnecessary risk, that they might draw undue attention among gamblers. The Mallorca had become the scenery, another con that needed sold, and complications like cheating accusations would be problematic. She understood the logic, however, in the back of her mind the thought persisted that, if anything went wrong, she may not even know. For the time being, she was flying semi-blind, and it drove her mad.

The address led them to a twelve-story, Reform Era building with an imposing entrance and a heavy copper cornice. Limestone walls stretched skyward, and its windows were arranged in a pattern which seemed to promote austerity more than aesthetic delight. While once it housed a men's hotel, the edifice currently boasted luxury apartments, with a prime location and incredible city views. It was hardly a surprise that Izumi had chosen to make her New York home there.

The pair flashed exquisitely forged badges at the doorman, declaring a need to speak with Clara Shulz, a random resident of the same building that Havoc had chosen from one database or another. He was directed, in no uncertain terms, to _not_ contact the tenant about her visitors, and they continued toward the elevators. On the eighth floor, Riza strolled along one edge of the large atrium that rose from the ground floor to the roof, glancing over the rail before scanning the various doorways to other units.

Assured they were alone, she discreetly placed a hand on her pistol, affixing a suppressor to the muzzle of her firearm and catching Lex's eye as she knocked on the door. When no response came, she rapped her knuckles with greater force, giving her friend a nod after another minute of silence. The brunette picked the lock and Riza nudged her way into a dim apartment with her weapon drawn, the walls around her painted a dark color that added to the gloom. In the brief light of the open door she spotted a switch, and soon a table lamp flicked on, revealing the foyer in which they stood.

Hardwood floors disappeared into shadows and, as her partner turned into a kitchen full of brushed steel appliances, she paced down the hallway to the left. Even in the faint illumination of that small lamp, she noticed an especially dark patch of floor around fifteen feet away, which glistened ominously. Starting slowly forward, she spotted movement at the far end of the unlit corridor and swiftly spun into an open room. A shot rang out and she fired around the door frame, trying to clip the edge of the dark figure, but the individual dove into an opening.

Too late she noticed the much closer set of footfalls, and then a boot hit her stomach and something painfully solid smacked the side of her head. She gritted her teeth, recognizing the butt of a pistol when she felt one, and fell onto her back, lashing out with a kick that met a meaty thigh. Metal creaked as the individual collided with a piece of exercise equipment, and she used that instant to roll sideways into a crouch, squeezing the trigger a second time. Havoc's tense voice filled her earpiece and she silenced the device, still watching the figure of her assailant and listening intently for absolutely _anything_. A fourth gunshot echoed from elsewhere in the apartment and she rose, spine straightening as she returned to the doorway. "Lex?"

"I'm fine. I'll take the north side."

"Copy." Riza proceeded to carefully clear bedrooms, bathrooms, and a personal gym, finally kneeling beside the liquid in the hall to confirm what she already suspected: blood. She reached out to press another switch with the muzzle of her firearm, mouth forming a line when she saw Izumi Curtis lying on her side in the living room, her limbs contorted at awkward angles. A bullet had passed through her left eye, and _recently_ , considering they'd interrupted the damn hit.

From the other room Lex then announced, "I've got a body. Linebacker lookin' guy with a corporate beard, scar near his left temple."

The blonde knelt beside Izumi's form with a puzzled sigh. "That's her ex-husband, Sig."

Her friend appeared in the archway across the room, expression wry. "The guy we suspected might be the employer?"

"Yeah, him. Apparently there's another player involved."

"Great." As she turned away, Lex added, "There was nothing useful on Curtis. I'm on the computer."

Riza checked the dead woman's pockets, hoping for a stroke of luck in the form of a phone, and found little more than lint. She moved on to perform a swift investigation of the space, pulling up rugs, peering behind artwork, and shifting furniture with gloved hands. Normally, she'd have taken greater pains to cover her tracks, however, their time was not limitless, and thoughts of a terrified little girl spurred her on. The other rooms were similarly fruitless and she entered the kitchen, where the brunette had connected her phone to a green-cased laptop. Her lack of success conveyed via shrug, she started to open cupboard doors, both to occupy herself and with the halfhearted idea that she might discover a false back which concealed _something_ useful.

After shutting the oddly tall pantry, she considered the built-in oven with a quirked mouth and pulled on the handle. Years ago, she'd known a guy that had the curious habit of hiding his cellphones in bread makers, or the occasional espresso machine. While it was by no means an effective method for inhibiting unwelcome ears, she'd always assumed it satisfied a compulsion of some kind. And at this point in their search, she was open to unlikely leads.

The black trench coat resting on the top rack made her eyes narrow, however, the obvious weight in the left-hand pocket brought a smile to her lips. Riza unceremoniously dropped the jacket onto the trendy concrete and resin countertop, fishing an ordinary flip phone from the fabric. She browsed through messages while following Lex back into the atrium walkway, and tapped her earpiece once they'd reached the street. "Havoc, the Curtises are dead. We found a phone, and Ms. Mura here copied her potentially useful hard drive. On our way."

"Copy that."

They'd only driven a block before a burgundy sport utility vehicle rammed into the rear passenger door with a deafening crash, sending their BMW spinning uncontrollably. Her head smacked against the driver's side window and, for several tense moments, her mind was a blur of crunching metal, breaking glass, and the screech of tires sliding over pavement. She grabbed Lex's hand as the vehicle finally stilled, and her friend gave a slow nod, letting out a groan that sounded faintly like, ' _Ouch_.' A chuckle nearly left her, and then a figure appeared in the window, a pistol trained at her temple, and a voice said, "Time for a chat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and have a good one!


	23. The Mallorca: Day Two

**The Mallorca: Day Two** – May 18th – The Sintra, NYC

The resume Roy Mustang had compiled in his early life was undeniably impressive, and it included, among other exploits, the seventy million stolen from an oil tycoon, the magnificent diamond taken from an English heiress, and several priceless pieces conned from museums around the world. Suffice it to say that he'd made a name for himself, and garnered a certain amount of notoriety at a surprisingly young age. The _real_ fortunes, however, were not made until he and Hughes hid themselves away in Washington, D.C.

They'd started running raked games near schools like Georgetown and George Washington University, letting overconfident students lose their parents' money in a way that made them feel sophisticated and comfortably rebellious. After four months, they established a regular game for a wealthier and more discerning clientele, with Maes acting as host while Roy sat with the players, disguised as some loaded senator's son, or an absurdly rich philanthropist. His evenings were spent taking money from greedy whales, on top of the usual rake, and their debt sheets were sold to Brosh Sr. for exorbitant sums. The scheme was ridiculously profitable.

Over the course of a year, rumor spread that Nick Sylvaine was handling cards in Washington, and the take only grew, along with the list of angry dupes. In hindsight, he'd have to admit that Silaris showed up at the perfect time.

While the purpose of their game had changed since those formative years, this evening's main event would not be a true Mallorca unless he made an appearance. Therefore, despite the myriad potential risks, and while silently wishing he'd never left one massive bed, Roy casually eyed his fellow no-limit hold em' players. He had only pocket kings, both the flop and turn having provided _zero_ assistance, however, the low-rent mobsters to his left were projecting far more assurance than they felt. He raised, predicting that chairs one and six would call, two would eventually backraise, and the others would fold. When he was proven right, he felt a gratified thrill that a decade of practicing law had never managed to emulate.

Tossing in a few more chips, he glanced around the partially-renovated Sintra, where he'd arrived almost two hours earlier. Gone were the ornate light fixtures and hideous red upholstery, replaced by soft recessed lighting and tasteful leather chairs. The wall mirrors remained, but much of the old furniture had been removed in favor of luxury gaming tables, which were strategically positioned throughout the space. The dark marble bar gleamed, bottles and glasses glittered invitingly on the shelves beyond and, while music played in the background, it was largely drowned out by the omnipresent undertones of conversation and laughter.

Faint traces of lavender and thyme floated on the cool air flowing from the ventilation system, the combination designed to keep patrons alert enough to play, and relaxed enough to place large bets. The majority had gathered around tables, trying their hand at poker, black jack, and roulette, among other entertainments. Still more well-dressed visitors ambled through The Sintra, closely observing the current games and waiting to slide into a chair themselves, each individual chosen from a carefully curated guest list. And finally, amidst that affluent assemblage waded members of the serving staff, diligently fulfilling beverage orders and offering an endless variety of hors d'oeuvres.

He fought the urge to check his watch and glanced at Brosh, who had spent the evening trying to play blackjack while repeatedly making the ill-advised move of standing on a soft sixteen. The man's agitation had been further complicated by the arrival of their kidnappers an hour prior, the taller of whom joined the mobster's table and had a similarly curious strategy. Plainly, his intention was not to win, given his markedly conservative choices, not to mention the ransom payment expected later that night, and yet at the same time he took no pains to play naturally. It was as though his only purpose was to taunt the father of a missing child, torment the husband of an abducted woman, and that was something Roy liked to call 'being a prick.'

Mouth forming the briefest of lines, he scanned the bar to verify that the second target had not moved and picked up his drink, pausing when Riza finally stepped through the main entrance. Her hair was gathered at the nape of her neck, black satin clung to her hips in a way that threatened severe distraction, and his obsidian tie clip once more graced her wrist. He tracked her to the bar in his peripheral vision, and decided that he'd had quite enough of poker for the evening. Hence he sipped his old fashioned, which he preferred with rye whiskey, and watched the river: the four of clubs. As expected, the first chair tossed in the remnants of a busted flush, busy playing the cards themselves as opposed to the man across the table, and seat two raised. The remarkably timid chair three had already folded a two-pair after the turn and, despite the fact Roy had miraculously ended up with the best current hand, he continued to project the bluff.

With no outward reaction to the cards he raised, enough to make it seem like he was trying to bully his way to victory, and to draw out the aggressive second chair, who had been hoping in vain for trip tens. He'd already more than doubled his money, and it was time to choreograph another loss, specifically one that would make him appear to have been outwitted. The other guy smirked, revealing said tens, and Roy slid his cards face-down toward the dealer, his expression wry, as if to say, _You got me_. A substantial collection of chips in hand, he grabbed his beverage and strolled toward the bar, where Riza stood with the stem of a martini glass between her fingers. He wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek by way of greeting, giving a disappointed shrug as he said, "My luck ran out."

Her smile was sympathetic as she idly ran her fingers beneath his lapel, but there was a slight tension around her mouth. "Only temporarily, I'm sure."

"It's your fault." He leaned against the bar, and pushed his empty glass across the surface as a wordless request for another drink. "Standing over here in that dress."

"My dress has nothing to do with it."

"I beg to differ." She'd no sooner bit back an alluring curve of the lips, than he noticed the faint bruising around her left eye, the cut on her lip, and his gaze narrowed minutely. "Maybe I'll cash out while I'm ahead. Take you to dinner."

Her brow rose, a silent warning that plans had changed. "An actual date. Sounds nice."

All thoughts of a fresh drink forgotten, Roy took her free hand and let the blonde guide him toward the door, the massive mirror sliding closed behind them. They were shortly flanked by two armed men, one of whom gestured rather unconcernedly down the hall, and the group strolled past unremarkable cinder-block walls. After almost fifty feet, they reached a section where the bricks formed an imperfect rectangle, as though an old door had been removed and permanently blocked. One member of their escort rapped twice with his knuckles, and that particular stretch of wall swung outward, revealing one of the complex's several concealed rooms.

The couple was ushered inside, and he was on the cusp of making inquiries when Riza shook her head, placing a hand on his chest. She removed a comm from her ear and dropped it on the floor, at which point he obligingly crushed it under his heel. Eyeing the door, she rapidly explained, "The Curtises are dead. No useful intel from Izumi's apartment or devices, and no location on the captives. And there's a third party."

His brow drew downward. "Is Brosh involved?"

"Not sure." She glanced at him in thought, and added, "We..."

Just then the door was thrown open once more, and the mobster was shoved into the room, nearly losing his balance with a muttered, "Fucking _shit_." Denny's jaw set when he noticed them, one hand loosening his tie with a sharp tug. "Whatever the fuck's happening, it better not be you."

Roy took a step forward, head cocked to one side. "Strange. I was about to say the same thing to you, Den."

The other man took a hesitant breath. "We've had our differences, Mustang, I get that. I'll never admit this again, but you're the best chance I have of finding my family. I wouldn't jeopardize that."

For several seconds he regarded the man, and finally shared a quick glance with Hawkeye. "Whatever this is, it's not us. We'll figure it out, just follow my lead." He smirked then, and observed, "That had to hurt."

Brosh released a brusque chuckle. "You have no idea."

Cinder blocks grated against each other yet again, and the trio simultaneously looked toward the doorway, watching as Darius and Heinkel entered, preceded by a man he recognized from description only. His white hair was pulled back, mouth set in an irritatingly satisfied smirk, and his haughty gaze moved from one captive to the next as he paced nonchalantly into the room, ultimately stopping before Roy himself. "So _this_ is the lawyer that broke the proverbial camel's back. Fascinating." His red eyes moved to the blonde, lips momentarily tightening in disappointment, and then a firearm materialized in his hand, which he pointed at her head. He removed an earpiece of his own, and tossed it aside while saying, "You should've let me keep listening."

Sparing nary a glance for the pistol, she replied, "I wanted a private word. Emphasis on _private_."

"I hope it was worth it." Without warning, he lowered the weapon and stepped forward. "And you'd better hope that I don't take my frustrations out on Lex, or the lovely Brosh ladies."

Beside him Riza's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, dangerously. "Gentlemen, meet Miles."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and have a good one!


	24. The River

**The River** – May 18th – New York City

Her emotions flitting between ire and morbid amusement, Riza kept her expression carefully composed as she watched Miles pour a self-congratulatory glass of Macallan. The anger was admittedly more forceful, because he'd broken that unspoken and universally acknowledged rule to never fuck with children. The latter persisted, however, because she remained confident in their ability to find a solution to this mess, and she looked forward to the moment they would tear the smug smirk from his face. She'd _love_ it. In the mean time, she took a seat and patiently waited for the game to begin, for the moronic thugs to finish tying Brosh to a chair as punishment for having tried to tackle Miles to the floor. Beside her Roy followed the proceedings with a quirked mouth, and though his eyes were fairly unreadable, he seemed rather pleased, as if the man's appearance had merely saved him the trouble of finding the employer himself.

At one point a server appeared and, as a crystal glass of amber liquid was placed before her, Miles asked, "You're a fan of the Hibiki, right? An old fashioned, I believe it was, for Mustang, and a vodka tonic for the bulldog over there. I guess we'll get you a straw." He paused, already adding more scotch to his own glass. "If there's anything you'd like, feel free to ask. This doesn't have to be unpleasant."

" _Fuck_ you, ya fucking shit-rooster," Denny practically growled, straining in vain against rope. "If anything hap..."

"Have you tried meditation?" their new host interrupted with false curiosity. "Some mindfulness could really help with this rage you seem to be experiencing."

Brosh's glare only intensified. "Where is my family?"

"Shut up and drink before you give yourself an aneurysm." He gave a regretful shake of the head, red eyes shifting to her once more. "Out of respect for our past dealings, Hawkeye, I'll offer this professional courtesy. Leave now, no hard feelings."

A smirk played across Riza's face, and in response she took a slow sip of Hibiki. "I'm fine right here."

"Suit yourself." Miles momentarily raised his glass, pausing to answer his phone when it buzzed and ending the call not thirty seconds later. "I'm told there's some impressive gear in the penthouse. If you had friends upstairs, they're gone. And if you'd like Lex, Brie, and little Irena to avoid bodily harm, you'll make sure Havoc doesn't cause any trouble."

Denny's eyes suddenly narrowed. "Ya know, if we put your brain in a squirrel, I bet it'd just run in fucking circles."

"Colorful insults, Mr. Brosh. Congratulations." The fixer held out a hand in what was doubtless meant to be a conciliatory gesture. "When I said this doesn't need to be unpleasant, that was the truth. I just want the money. I'm afraid I outbid you for Ms. Traherne's loyalty. She'll make sure your friend Hughes continues playing host, and we'll sit here until your Mallorca reaches ten million. Simple as that."

Roy toyed with the orange peel from his old fashioned, and finally said, "Don't worry about Havoc. He's taking my stepson to safety, like I asked."

"He speaks." Miles leaned forward with a grin. "I've wanted to meet you for years. The great Nick Sylvaine, and the guy that sent Ceres off the reservation. One and the same. Who knew?"

"Believe me, she was never off the reservation." Roy abruptly drained his beverage, and slid the glass across the table before leaning back in his chair. "I've been thinking about where you'd hide them. The Bronx wouldn't be logistically _terrible_." Their captor chuckled, and he continued, "Brooklyn's conveniently located, a nice happy medium. Manhattan's close enough to border on arrogant, but you strike me as the confident type. Jersey might be smart, or Queens...there's just so many variables to consider."

"I do apologize for making things difficult. Nothing personal. Rest assured that, once I get what I want, I'll hand you the address myself." The fixer gave a signal to one of his men, who proceeded to speak quietly into an earpiece. "I hate to sound cliché, but I expected an actual challenge from Nick Sylvaine."

"Can't win them all, as they say," he responded with a shrug, and pulled an iron-core gaming ounter from his pocket, inattentively rolling it over his knuckles. He glanced at the blonde, and completely changed the subject by saying, "I'm curious why that guard keeps glaring at you."

Riza took note of the muscled gunman posted near the door, who happened to sport a strange, l-shaped scar on his scalp, and returned Mustang's gaze with an irreverent tilt to her head. "I may have hit him with a crow bar a couple times."

A surprised laugh very nearly escaped him. "Why?"

She sipped the whiskey, exhaling through pursed lips. "It was the night you were shot. I was upset, and he was rude."

Her mouth curved when Roy impulsively kissed the back of her hand. "I found your apartment three years ago. It was cleared out by the time I got there, of course, but I looked for you. Hughes threatened to shoot me, even stuck around to stop me from doing anything foolish. I was worried as hell, Riza." He caught her eye, his thumb grazing her knuckles. "You said you were upset, and you weren't alone."

Her smile softened, and she shifted closer. "I had a feeling."

"I still wanted you to hear it."

Her chest warmed, a flirtatious tilt to her head, as though they were discussing an invitation to his apartment. Before she could continue their game, Denny released a snort and addressed their self-appointed host, saying, "This is a thing. They couldn't be together before, and I guess they like to compensate by making other people nauseous."

Riza eyed him with an irked sort of mirth, and said, "I've always thought the Garment District would be a nice place to keep hostages."

"All those buildings," Brosh contributed, watching them with veiled interest. "Plenty of nooks to hide people. Did you keep my family in a _warehouse_ , dickweed?"

"Two Bridges is a little close," she proceeded with an uninterested flick of her hand. "Parkchester, on the other hand, would be strategically ill-advised. Astoria is a possibility. Hell, I don't know...the Jersey Waterfront?"

"Haphazard guesses? That's your plan?" Miles' grin became a smidgen less amused than before. "Well, your bestie Liv's out of town, and the entire building is under my control. We _are_ just waiting, so I suppose you can pass the time however you see fit." He crossed an ankle over one knee, scotch gently swishing round as he gestured with the glass. "Nice random subject changes, by the way. I admire the effort."

"We aim to please," Mustang rejoined, making no move to relinquish her hand. "We could simplify matters further. Let me sit for a few hands of poker, you'll get your ten million."

"There's one problem with that. I don't trust you. Even now you're attempting some kind of ploy."

"Cobble Hill," came Denny's unexpected proposal, and he shrugged when their eyes all moved to him. "I thought we were throwing out neighborhoods. By the way, I'm still waiting on that straw. My vodka's getting watered down, and that's the real crime."

Riza shared a little smile with Mustang. "What's the deal, Miles? You must be in very deep with your bookie to warrant all this trouble."

A corner of his mouth furrowed, and he reached for the bottle of Macallan. "The truth is I'm ready to retire. I saw an opportunity to increase my holdings, and I took it. This is _business_ , plain and simple."

"It doesn't _feel_ like business, asshole," Brosh began, shifting his limbs in a useless attempt to get comfortable. "What about Castle Hill? I'm feeling optimistic about hills, apparently."

As though the other man had never spoken, Miles continued, while one of his guards placed a phone on the table, "Therefore, I also plan to shamelessly take a page out of Nick Sylvaine's playbook. You can't hunt me without resources, so I'll need account numbers and passcodes. Sooner would be preferable to later."

Roy chuckled and turned in his chair to better face her, absently spinning the poker chip on the tabletop. "They always get greedy, and evidently a little delusional."

With a smirk she stole the counter, and rolled it between her thumb and forefinger. "The problem, Miles, is that meeting your demands just means you'll come back for more. Eventually."

A muffled knock then came through the door, and it opened to reveal Gracia Traherne, impeccably dressed in a floor-length gown of deep aquamarine, with a diamond bracelet glittering from her wrist. She leaned over to speak quietly in their host's ear, tapping a silver clutch against her leg with seeming idleness. The woman waited by the entrance, and Miles set his glass down, with a pleased grin telling them, "As enlightening as this conversation has been, I think we've chatted long enough. I'm told it's time to check in with Mr. Hughes. My associates will enjoy wrangling your retirement plans." He glanced at Riza with a smirk. "They specifically requested a crowbar. I wonder why?"

Mustang nodded, reclaiming the chip and turning it over in his hand. "You're right, it's enough."

He thrice tapped the counter on the table and, before the intense amusement could fully form on Miles' face, several gunmen stepped through the door, promptly disarming the kidnappers and pair of guards against the wall. Miles shoved his chair back and drew a firearm in one swift movement, once again pointing the weapon at the blonde's face. Brow rising, he asked, "Did you ever wonder how far the lawyer's willing to go for _you_?"

Her only response was the obligatory raising of her hands, while Roy stepped round the table and accepted a pistol from one newcomer, pressing the muzzle against the white hair at her former ally's temple. "Much further than you seem to think."

He shook his head. "That's beautiful, but your threat's meaningless. You kill me, and the Brosh family becomes little more than a depressing story on the evening news."

"Not necessary. At least, not yet." Mustang's voice lowered, taking on a menacing hint she'd never before heard him use. "You can still talk with a blown out knee."

Miles searched his face, lowering the weapon with clear reluctance, and was summarily shoved against the wall between his already secured employees, who appeared delightfully irritated. The man's wrists were quickly bound, and soon after Havoc walked in with an exuberant grin, as well as a cheeky wave, plopping his laptop on the table. "Hiya. This place has a _ton_ of secret rooms. Did Ms. Traherne not mention that?"

"Probably because she's on our payroll, not yours." Roy paced casually toward him, one hand in his pocket and the other still cradling the gun. Half-turning his head in her direction, he asked, "Are you familiar with his properties in Brooklyn?"

"Unfortunately not, but we have options." Riza moved to stand beside him, took the phone offered by one of the gunmen, and perused the map already displayed. "Greenpoint, Williamsburg, Clinton Hill, Fort Greene, Prospect Park, Greenwood Heights, Red Hook, Brooklyn Heights..."

"They're in Red Hook," Mustang interjected, his eyes not leaving their subject, his head shaking once as his mind worked. "It's not a warehouse, when that came up earlier I caught relief. Where would you keep hostages?"

She glanced at him in thought. "Junkyards are nice for hiding people, guns, incendiaries. Abandoned buildings and foreclosed properties work. Interruptions are unlikely, they wouldn't be tied to him, and they can offer certain useful amenities. Residential areas are surprisingly handy. People pay less attention to their neighbors than you think."

"Cemeteries?" Brosh suggested, freed from his restraints and straightening his faintly wrinkled suit jacket, a glare returning to his features not a second later. "If you buried my family alive you piece of sh..."

Roy threw an arm across the mobster's chest. "Foreclosed properties in Red Hook, most likely commercial."

"Copy that. Searching," Havoc soon responded, adding after a brief silence, "We've got multiple possibilities. Any way you can narrow it down?"

"It'll be relatively near the water," Riza began, watching Mustang as she spoke, "close to all those buildings that have been repurposed into quirky shops and distilleries. The foreclosure will have been recent, nothing that's sat empty long, and they'd need a secure place to hold captives so they can't be heard. Ideally it would be on the edge of a busy area, so locals wouldn't be overly curious about any comings and goings."

The grifter nodded in confirmation, having received some doubtless unwilling approbation from their prisoners via any number of uncontrollable microexpressions, and eventually Jean said, "The best I've found is a pre-Civil War building that's been everything from a general store to a pharmacy. A group tried to turn it into a fancy brewery but they lost funding a month ago, and there's even an old storage room in the basement that the previous owners had soundproofed."

Miles shook his head in blatant incredulity. "You can't honestly believe I'm going to give you any information."

"You thought I was talking to you?" Roy asked with a chuckle, gesturing toward the pinstripe-clad kidnapper known as Darius. "Afraid not. Your friend here told me everything I need to know, and you just confirmed it. Send the teams there, Havoc."

"Will do."

Darius balked, and his brow furrowed with doubt. "The fuck are you talking about? I didn't say a damn thing."

"You need to work on your poker face. Relief, anxiety...it's all there. And your jaw twitches when you're tense. Just a friendly reminder." Mustang smirked, and took a step closer to the fixer. "I'm very good at what I do."

Miles stared for a long moment, and drew back as he came to a realization. "Your visit to the house in Vermont, the school, identifying the crew, all that effort to backtrace accounts. You _lured_ me here."

"It would never be truly finished unless we found the employer, and there was no time to locate you, so we caused enough trouble to draw you in, to make you worry. Fortunately, it worked." Roy moved aside as another guest arrived, this one a woman wearing an ominous, red pant suit. "Here's the other surprise. Olivier Armstrong is still in town, and it turns out she's _not_ your biggest fan. I'd love to know why."

Riza looked from her friend's cold eyes to the prisoner, and smiled. "Good luck with that."

They were just about to leave the room when, clearly, Brosh could no longer contain himself, landing a right hook to Miles' jaw that whipped his head sideways. "You're a dead man."

"Hey, Den," Mustang began, pausing in the doorway with with a hand in his pocket. "Our ride's waiting." The mobster tugged a hand through his hair, straightened his jacket, and strode decisively into the corridor. The pair soon followed and Riza checked the time on her phone, wondering what contingencies Miles might have in place and unable to avoid the concern that a drive to Brooklyn provided ample time for this game to go sideways. Roy's voice drew her attention when he asked, "Thoughts?"

As they climbed a set of metal stairs into the alley, she said, "He's only been out of contact for ten minutes. If he's given any orders to kill the hostages, I assume we still have time before they're carried out."

Brosh quirked an eyebrow. "I _was_ feeling great about this."

"She makes an important point." He held the limousine door open for her, and quietly added, "Liv has six teams in the area. They won't be hostages for much longer."

"I know." Her reply was noncommittal, because she'd seen too many of these situations end poorly to be truly optimistic.

Doubtless sensing her uncertainty, Roy took her hand, and a largely silent car ride to Red Hook followed. Given the general impatience to reach their destination, time stretched painfully and traffic seemed to worsen with each passing second. They seemed to find every possible red light between the apartment building and Brooklyn, and she feared the phone might ring again, to inform them that the rescue had somehow gone horribly wrong.

Eventually, the vehicle pulled in front of a red-brick building, with Craftsman-style casings around the doors and faded lettering on the windows. The entrance stood open and, as they slowed, through it stepped a woman carrying a young girl who bore a notable resemblance to Brosh. The mobster finally displayed an emotion aside from anger when he sprinted down the sidewalk, pulling his family into a fierce embrace. Lex made a beeline for the limousine, and Riza wrapped an arm around her friend's shoulder, gaze quickly evaluating which bruises originated with the car crash, and which had been inflicted by her captors. Next to her Roy shifted, the only sign that he harbored any uncertainties, and she squeezed his hand, giving him a look that she hoped was encouraging. The Brosh family soon joined them, after which they suffered through an even longer trip back to the safe house.

The penthouse was once more filled with people, the remnants of their efforts scattered around the various rooms. Weapons and tactical gear waited in their cases, computers and other hardware were left unattended, and an unused gown hung from a doorframe. The screens lining one wall displayed several camera feeds, some showing guests of the still active Mallorca, while others covered the streets nearest the building. They played unseen, however, with Havoc and Ling sorting through another collection of food deliveries in the kitchen, while Lex chatted with Gracia and Hughes in the living room.

Riza took the stairs to the master bedroom, and she'd just slipped out of her heels when Mustang followed her inside, the door clicking shut behind him. She smiled, about to ask him a teasing question which was soon forgotten as he pulled her into his arms, and in that moment all remaining tension left her. Not until she relaxed against him did it fully register that the rescue had successfully finished, that it was truly over.

She felt the vibration of his voice when he asked, "How should we celebrate my second retirement?"

With a tiny shrug, she said, "There's a fancy Mallorca downstairs, and apparently it's your last one. Want to drop in?"

Roy shook his head, his thumb brushing her cheek. "I'm fine right here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more after this, and I plan to have it posted on Sunday. Thank you for reading, I hope you liked the chapter, and have a good one!


	25. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that has read, commented, bookmarked, and left kudos on this story. I'm incredibly grateful for your comments and support!! For anyone that may be interested, I have a couple in-progress stories on FFN, Aequinoctium and Fortress of Denliath, which I plan to begin posting here in the near future. I also have a few ideas for Royai Roulette in the works.
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed reading Astra as much as I've enjoyed writing it. On to chapter 25 :)

**Epilogue** – May 29th – Southern Portugal

Apart from the waves crashing on the beach below, a serene silence pervaded the comfortable little villa. Cool night air coasted through unlit rooms, buffeting the sheer drapes which framed each window and wafting the chimes that dangled from a nearby strawberry tree. French doors yawned, and on the horizon hovered a thunderstorm, the lightning jagged and crisp against the backdrop of clouds. Beneath the storm seawater moiled and, occasionally, an assertive gust of wind would send errant leaves skimming across the patio.

An unusually large cabriolet sofa had been positioned before the open doors, its upholstery a steely gray, and Roy reclined against the pillows to watch the ocean. Footsteps were heard approaching from the bedroom, and he smiled when Riza appeared, silk robe sliding to the floor as she crawled over him. He kissed her, his fingers temporarily lacing into her hair, and slowly pulled the satin sheet over their legs as she said, "I had a message from Lex. She and Ling will be in Mahé in a couple weeks."

"I'm guessing he agreed to island hop for the summer."

She hummed in confirmation, her tone turning abruptly amused. "And apparently Maes is still in New York. _Surprise_."

"Busy flirting with the next Mrs. Hughes." Roy's eyes tracked a flash of lightning, and then he asked, "Want to leave for Mahé?"

"Eventually, maybe." Ghosting her lips over his sternum, she rested her head on his chest, and her voice softened when she said, "I like Portugal. Let's stay here a while."

He caught her hand. "Fine with me."

"One of these days I'm taking _you_ somewhere.

With a smirk, he murmured, "I like the sound of that."

A laugh left her and Riza tucked hair behind an ear, her fingertips tracing his hip just as a faint rumble of thunder reached them. He circled an arm around her and they fell quiet, watching the faraway tumult as the curtains billowed around them. The wind tugged idly at the sheet, and when she shivered he draped a blanket over them, not yet willing to abandon that tranquility for the warmth of a bed. Not seeming to mind, she kissed his neck, her mouth curving pleasantly against his skin as he coasted a hand up her thigh.

On an impulse, Roy reached for the jacket that had been tossed to the floor some time ago, freeing the petite box concealed in an inner pocket. From it he removed a simple, white-gold ring with vanda orchids elegantly engraved on the surface, which he'd found in an antique shop a few miles away. He slipped the band onto her left ring finger, and quietly told her, "I hope you don't mind, but I've wanted to give you one of these for a while."

The blonde rose on an elbow with a brilliant smile, her hair falling over his chest as she eyed the etchings, and then leaned forward to kiss him in response. His grin became marginally self-conscious, and he plucked the cushion from the base of the box. When another white-gold band was revealed, this one plain with a satin finish, he said, "Just in case."

"This may not be _official_..." Riza took his hand, carefully sliding the ring into place while his free palm found her waist.

His mouth quirked. "That's never been a priority of mine."

"Not for me, either." Her voice lowered, and she added, "But for the record, this is one thing I wouldn't mind making official."

Roy trailed a hand along her jaw, brushing a tendril of gold aside before kissing her softly. "Then we should call Lex back, let her know they'll have a reception to attend."

The blonde simply nodded, her eyes brightening in a way that thrilled him, and again grazed her lips over his. He drew her closer then, having missed the warmth of her skin during its brief absence. Her cheek once more against his chest, he wrapped an arm around her waist and glanced over at the still raging storm. Taking her hand, he ran a thumb across white-gold orchids and smiled, because for years this moment had seemed forever out of reach.

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the story, and have a good one!


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